Black Ink
by Hellsig Otoupeim
Summary: "Remus smiles, and she hopes." Neither Cassiopeia nor him are very good at the whole being married thing. He's too old, and she's too Slytherin; but they make do with what they have. And lose it. And find themselves. Marriage Law AU


Black Ink (worth it or not?)

Disclaimer: anything you might recognise is not mine, but probably J. K. Rowling's. No profit is made from the online publishing of this work.

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On the twelfth of September 1998, a Law was announced by the Ministry of Magic on the second to last page of the Daily Prophet, in size 8 font. Not a single wizard or witch read it.

On the twelfth of March 1999, a Law was passed by the Wizengamot at near majority. Augusta Longbottom left the room spitting mad at the infringement on the Wizarding Folk's liberty, and the scandal spread to the papers even more rapidly than word of Voldemort's defeat had; effectively plummeting the current Minister of Magic's reputation to an all-time low in the history of Wizarding Britain. On the fourteenth of March 1999, Hermione Granger, Freedom right Activist and Heroine of the Great Wizarding War, wrote a letter of appeal to Queen Elizabeth the Second. On the twenty-seventh, she wrote to the European Parliament in Brussels. On the fifth of April, she harangued the Minister of Magic as he left his office and delivered a poignant speech against encroachment of Human Rights. On the seventeenth, accompanied by more than a thousand wizard and witches ( _more_ , she would later say wryly, _than came to fight against Voldemort_ ) she organised a peaceful protest march on the Ministry of Magic. On the nineteenth, Miss Hermione Granger, Heroine of the Second Great Wizarding War and Brightest Witch of her Age, was arrested by Aurors as she left her flat in Muggle London for breaching the Statute of Secrecy and attempted sedition. She was put in confinement and told to marry or face trail for her actions.

On the twentieth of April 1999, aged eighteen, Miss Hermione Granger became Mrs Hermione Weasley.

On the twenty-first, she conducted a second march of protest, this time with Heroes of the War Harry Potter and Ronal Weasley by her side.

On the twenty-first of April 1999, aged eighteen, Mrs Hermione Weasley and Mr Ronald Weasley were trialled by the Ministry of Magic for charges of sedition, inciting public unrest, endangering the wizarding population and breaking the Statute of Secrecy. They were sentenced to a lifelong imprisonment in Azkaban.

Thus began the Law of the Twelfth of March 1999.

.

Cassiopeia Lestrange was not alone when she received her letter from the Ministry of Magic. It arrived, as she was having breakfast with trusted cousin, fellow Slytherin and ex-Death Eater Theodore Nott. His came at the same time. Both purebloods ignored the letters for the duration of their meal, eating their croissants and drinking their tea as if they did not have a care in the world. It was only once Sesi and Resi, the House-elves to the Lestrange family, had cleared the dining table that both made their way to the Green Parlour to open their ministerial correspondence.

"_a farce, don't you think?" Theodore asked as Cassiopeia poured him a healthy dose of firewhiskey. She took her own tumbler to her seat, trailing her fingers over the thick, creamy parchment that smelt of still-fresh ink.

"_an insult to the Old Magic." she added with a nod. "The familial covenant will not be happy." She said after a second's silence, sharing a glance with her cousin.

"_it may yet be the least of our worry." Theodore replied evenly, dragging the fine edge of his pen-knife underneath the wax seal. He had never much liked the mess made by breaking them, unlike his cousin who truthfully could not care less on the matter. Still, today, she waited for him to be done before she, also, took the silver knife and broke the wax. However, she did not unfold her letter until Theodore had read his.

"_well?" she prompted, when it became clear that Theodore would not tell her himself.

"_I would rather you read your own letter first, Cassiopeia."

Schooling her features (she had survived the Dark Lord, she would survive this) Cassiopeia Lestrange unfolded the thick parchment and, taking a deep breath that did nothing to settle her nerves, began reading the rather short missive.

' _Miss Cassiopeia Lestrange_ ' it began, green ink on yellowed velum. The regular letters and fancy calligraphy betrayed a dicta-quill, or some sort of mass-production charm. She carried on her lecture. ' _Lady of the House of Lestrange. The Minister of Magic is pleased to inform you that under the Law of the Twelfth of March 1999, in accordance with paragraph nine, the Old Magic has been used to select for you the partner most likely to bring your genetical patrimony variety and strength. Under the second amendment passed for this Law, a list of eligible wizards with their names, age and means of contact have been included below. If a partner has already been selected from your list for another match, their name will be barred through and no further information concerning them will be forthcoming. If it comes to be that all but one name of your list is chosen, you will automatically be entered into marriage with the remaining wizard_.'

' _To submit your selection to the Ministry, both of you will need to present yourself to the Department of Matrimony, on the second floor of the Ministry, in possession of your wands and this letter. If you have not yet made your choice by dusk on the thirtieth of April, the Old Magic will automatically partner you. Refusal to comply with the Law will, as stipulated on paragraph twelve, result in the breaking of your wand, three years' imprisonment in Azkaban and exile in the Muggle World upon your release_.'

Cassiopeia looked at her cousin, incredulous.

"_they will snap our wands over this?"

Theodore gave her a tight-lipped smile.

"_they have done worse, have they not?" She answered that with a nod of her head, fingers worrying the edge of the letter. Theodore sensed her unease. "Have you read the names yet?" he asked quietly. She shook her head no, grey eyes flickering down to the green ink, before she looked back at her cousin.

"_you first." she said, in a tone that broke no argument. Theodore rubbed the back of his neck uneasily.

"_I don't know any of them apart from Lovegood."

"_Luna Lovegood?" his cousin asked, white-knuckled grip tightening so much on her crystal glass that Theodore thought she might shatter it. He nodded at her question.

"_and you, Cassiopeia?"

She sipped her firewhiskey, trying to give herself countenance, before looking down at her letter. She had carefully avoided reading below the fold, but now found herself at an impasse. Slowly, her fingers deliberately not shaking ( _He could smell fear_ , her mother had whispered quietly to her, _and_ _you must not show any_ ), she straightened the parchment out. Five names. Two were already crossed out.

"_Ignatius Yaxley." she said, after a long silence. "Remus Lupin or Fornax Bulstrode."

A moment of silence.

"_just three?" Theodore asked, though he very well knew there had been five. She took a second to breathe through her nose before she read those names too.

"_Markab Shafiq and Percival Weasley." She took another breath, and tried not to think about the fact that, perhaps, they hadn't been crossed out this morning when she received the letter, and if only she had just opened it out immediately then she could have had more of a choice. (It has been done.) She breathed out slowly. "Crossed out, of course." She added, more so that there would not be silence. She looked over at her cousin. "What will you do?"

He was quiet for a long time.

"_I know Lovegood already." He finally said, quiet and subdued in a way that she had learnt to hate since the war. "and the other are so young."

She leant over to grip his hand tightly, and Theodore seemed to almost crumble on himself at the touch.

"_we are alive." She whispered to him quietly. "We are alive." She said again, with more conviction in her voice. They had learnt to be grateful for things like that. "We have dined with Him, danced under His eye and fought a War; and we have survived." Theodore grabbed her hands with both of his, and squeezed them tightly enough that all four went white. The Green Parlour felt cold, for all the elves had lit a merry fire.

"_I think I will speak to Lovegood." Theodore finally said, once the darkness had receded a little. "It cannot hurt." he whispered quietly, still holding onto her tightly enough to break bones.

"_perhaps have her over for lunch?" Cassiopeia said softly. "Even if she says no, it would only be proper."

Theodore gave out a sharp bark of laughter that was not humorous at all.

"_of course. We are still Purebloods, after all."

"_stop it." his cousin pleaded, trying to rise and get away from him. "Theodore, you know that's not it."

"_isn't it?" he asked, rising and following her as she strode out of the Parlour. "Isn't it exactly what's been happening for the past decade?"

"_no!" Cassiopeia said, turning around violently. She looked around, weary of arguing in such an open space even though the manor was empty, and dragged her cousin back into the privacy of the Parlour. "No." she said again, once they both had a glass of firewhiskey in their hands and were standing by the fireplace. "It's not because we lost a blood war that we have to forget who we are." She said fiercely, keeping an eye on Theodore's hands. He had never been violent, but war had a way of changing people.

"_and what are we?" Theodore argued back, making grand gestures with his arms that had his alcohol spilling over the rim of his glass. "Purebloods? Murderers? Scum?"

"_no." Cassiopeia said, as if she meant it. "We are Sacred Twenty-Eight. We are Blessed by the Old Magic, and we are Her children." It all sounded wrong to her ears, but Cassiopeia carried on because if she doubted now, if she didn't calm Theodore down and try to keep him grounded, then they would both break. Next time, he could be the reasonable one. "We have been brought up with manners." She carried on, voice softer and gentler. Theodore seemed to calm and hear her. "We have been brought up knowing that family is important, and that the law could always be made to suit us if we were smart enough about it. We know that we are Slytherins, and that Slytherins always survive – and this is no different, Theodore." She took a breath, a sip of her firewhiskey and blew a ring of smoke that made Theodore smile. "We will get married." Cassiopeia said quietly. "Because we must. I to a man who will stay far away from the waves of the press, and you to someone who is not scared of the Nott name, to someone who will bring glory back to it. We will do this" she carried on, and Theodore listened. Cassiopeia had always known best how to avoid the adults, how to limit the punishment, how to please the Dark Lord without losing too much. "not because it is our duty, or because we love those we have chosen, but because if we don't, Theodore – who will do it for us?"

"_Granger couldn't do it." Theodore argued quietly, though the fight had left him. He would invite Lovegood to the Lestrange Manor, and they would have lunch, and he would ask her to marry him.

His cousin gave him a wry, Slytherin smile.

"_Granger went about it the wrong way." she offered instead of the disparaging comment he knew she had on the tip of her tongue. Cassiopeia had gone to Durmstrang, before attending Hogwarts at the behest of her parents, in her Sixth and Seventh Year, and had therefore never developed the paradigm that Granger was the brightest witch of their age. Theodore wondered if it was a good or bad thing.

"_I'll write to Lovegood." he finally gave in with a sigh, putting his empty firewhiskey glass beside their abandoned first ones. "And you?"

"_I will have to think a little longer." she confessed, grabbing her letter off the settee on which she had discarded it. "I don't know any of these men, and they are all so – " a moment's indecision. "so old." She finished in a whisper. Theodore thought over the names again.

"_Bulstrode's daughter was in our year." he said, after a little thinking.

"_Millicent, yes?" his cousin asked quietly. "the quiet blonde one, friend with the half-blood."

Theodore nodded.

"_and Lupin was a professor, in my third year." he added quietly. "Professor Snape used to say he was a werewolf."

Grey eyes flickered over to him.

"_and what do you think, Theo?" They could both remember Greyback.

"_he's not like you think." her cousin finally said. "He was a good teacher, and didn't discriminate." She sensed a 'but', and remained silent. "but he is a werewolf."

Cassiopeia looked at the last name. Ignatius Yaxley. She knew him because he had had dealings with Theodore's father when she has been younger. Her father had gone to Azkaban, back when Cassiopeia had been a child, and she had gone to live with her Godfather; Theodore Nott Snr. Yaxley had been one of his schoolmates.

"_Bulstrode – did you hear much about him from his daughter?"

"_his wife died in strange circumstances." Theodore said so quietly she thought she had dreamt it. "And Millie always had bruises on her arms that she refused to talk about." Cassiopeia thought she would cry. (A werewolf, a wife-killer or a man more than thrice her age.)

"_you said Lupin was nice?" she asked, with an edge of desperation in her voice. Theodore grabbed her hands tightly.

"_he was kind." he whispered, and tried not to think of the consequences of his words. "all but three nights a month, he was kind." Then, after a moment's breath. "Yaxley is old." Theodore said, hating his words as they left his mouth. "He would die soon."

Cassiopeia shook her head.

"_Yaxley believed in the Dark Lord. I don't think I could – " She stopped herself short, trying to control her increasingly erratic breathing. "I need someone to rehabilitate me to society," she said instead. "And Lupin fought against Him, right? He was good friend with Potter's parents." More controlled breathing. Theodore pretended he didn't notice.

"_okay." he eventually said into her hair. They stunk like firewhiskey. "okay. I'll go write to Lovegood, and you'll go write to Lupin, and then we'll all have lunch together sometime next week. We can invite them to a restaurant." He breathed in, then out. "We can do that. Lunch, in a restaurant. Right?"

"_of course." she said, with all the impetus of a pureblood in her voice and none on her face. He was thankful that she tried, at the very least. He was thankful that they both tried to pretend they were fine. It made life a lot easier. "Posi will bring us parchment and ink." It appeared on the low table with a 'pop'. Two quills, but one inkwell. Cassiopeia chuckled, and the sound was almost normal. (He felt almost ready to let go of her hands.) "Okay. A simple letter." she said again, trying to convince himself or her, Theodore didn't know. "We've written plenty of letters before." She squeezed his hands, then freed one of hers. Cassiopeia checked the colour of the ink. Black. Good, that was neutral. "Posi always knows." She said quietly, and Theodore knew the praise would not go unheeded by the little Elf. He let go of her hands to sit down, and grabbed the green quill from the well. Cassiopeia followed suite.

' _Mr Lupin –_ '

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When Remus Lupin received his ministerial letter on the twenty-second of April, his mind was still reeling with the condemnation of Ron and Hermione. Harry had come over the night previous, Ginny in tow with what had to be five or six bottles of Ogden's finest. They had drunk well into the night, and all three had passed out in the living room of his modest flat. Only the incessant pecking of owls had awoken him to a blinding hangover that potions could only mildly dissipate, owls which had been there for a long time if the angriness of their hoots was anything to go by. The memories of Sirius' fate in Azkaban haunted the werewolf, wrecking the small sanity he had managed to retain after he had successfully pushed Dora away. She was pregnant, he had heard, with Charlie Weasley's child. A part of him felt relieved that she had found happiness, though his wolf was restless with the situation. Dora had been young, and perhaps not someone Remus would have loved in his youth, but she had been willing to brave it all with him, willing to give him a shot and willing to give him love; and that was the reason why he had pushed her away. Because someone as beautiful as her didn't deserve to be saddled with him.

He shouldn't have. He should have seized his happiness as it presented itself, should have made Dora his and watched her grow round with his child instead of finding himself matched by the ministry to someone who would always fear him. He should have been more selfish – or perhaps less selfish. He ought to have taken the chance to be hurt by letting Dora in.

It mattered little now, Remus thought as he watched the thick envelopes on his dining table. What good did it do to think of Dora, happily married to Charlie Weasley and having a child, when five witches were about to see his name on their letters and despair to be compatible with a werewolf? Remus looked at Harry and Ginny, sprawled over his floor, and took his envelope into his bedroom.

.

He hadn't yet managed to break the wax seal, staring at the green ink on the envelope that spelt his name in beautiful, cursive letters (far too beautiful for what the name implied) when a second owl called for his attention. Surprised, Remus hurried out of his room, aware that the racket would awaken Harry and Ginny but unwilling to make them face the situation so soon. He got to the window without either of them stirring, opening the glass panes to let the owl inside. It was not ministerial, Remus noted thoughtfully, because the bird was too big for that. Ministerial owls tended to be small and sturdy; often Barn owls. This, he knew, was Great Horned owl. James had had one, and so did Sirius. They were rather expensive birds, and temperamental to boost.

He recognised the seal on the wax in a heartbeat – letters arranged in disarray, prominent L, two stars; the Seal of the House of Lestrange.

Remus tore his ministerial letter open, eyes ripping past the green-inked words and down to a list of names. There, in between two crossed out lines – Cassiopeia Lestrange. His breath caught in his throat.

Very carefully, Remus went to sit at the kitchen table. He placed the two letters flat on the table in front of him, one all wrinkled and torn in his haste and the other still pristine. The Great Horned owl perched on the back of a chair, almost causing it to topple with its weight. Remus paid it no mind.

There, in fully formed letters, were five names. Three had already been crossed out. Hannah Abbott, Padma Patil and Amelia Bones. Remus wondered why they were all so young, before he focused on the two names not crossed out, the two potential names of his future wife. Cassiopeia Lestrange and – to his greatest horror – Minerva McGonagall.

For a second, for a long, interminable second, Remus thought it was a joke. Perhaps he had misread. Surely, this was not it. Surely there was someone else, someone better suited, someone who was not a Death-Eater nor old enough to be his mother. Had been as his mother, watching over him since he was eleven. Surely – surely this was all a mistake. The unopened letter taunted him. It was closed with red wax which, in some way, made it seem even more surreal. Surely the woman could have tried not to appear so – so normal. Surely a Death Eater should use green, or black wax; not this perfectly innocent red that all correspondence was done in! But the stupidity of his thoughts struck him even as he had them, the innate prejudice that sounded so much like Sirius' voice in his ear and made Remus feel not so alone.

He broke the seal carefully, almost like it might bite him, and even once the wax was cracked he didn't dare unfold the heavy paper. It was good paper, Remus knew, because he had often felt the thick creaminess of good paper as he graded essays. Pureblood-parchment, as they called it in the Common Room. Muggleborns tended to use a slicker, thinner version, more like paper, and half-blood rarely had the money to pay for rolls upon rolls of rough, good-quality parchment. They had a couple, for exams and important letters, but homework was done on the Muggleborns' thin sheets. Social discrepancies, Remus knew, told a lot about people. (He had never owned thick, creamy paper in his life. Werewolves didn't have that kind of money.)

She had written in black ink. It was a departure from convention, since green ink tended to be favoured for official proceedings, but Remus understood why she had done it. Green was Slytherin and Voldemort, and perhaps she was trying to rope him in, perhaps she was simply attempting to be thoughtful, but Remus found himself relieved that the ink was black. Black ink was easy, impersonal. She had nice handwriting. Probably used a nice quill too, with a full panache. Nothing unlike his own, well-worn ones that had seen him through Hogwarts and unemployment. He wondered if, like Sirius, she threw her quills away when the nib became so short she had to grip the feathers to write. He had seen many students do it – all purebloods or wealthy half-bloods – and it was yet again one of these things. She probably did too.

The letter said she was seventeen. He thought it odd, because if she had been seventeen then she would have been in Third Year DADA class, and Remus had watched over Harry very carefully. He didn't recall a Lestrange on the roll – he would have noticed something like that. He wondered if the letter was wrong, or if she had been home-schooled. Some families did it still, if the child was either brilliant or embarrassingly dumb. He wondered which it was for her. He wondered why he had never, ever heard of her. (Surely a Lestrange child – there would have been some press!)

He wondered what she had written him for.

His hands were shaking as he read the letter, so he had to lay it flat down on the table. Ginny and Harry were still asleep, so he supposed it didn't matter if he was shivering or not because there was no one to see it. He tried to concentrate on the words.

' _Mr Lupin_ ' it began, and he was glad she hadn't put any niceties in there. ' _Following the Law of the Twelfth of March 1999, I would like to invite you for lunch with my cousin, his intended and myself this week at your convenience, to discuss further the entailment of the Law. Regards, Cassiopeia Lestrange._ ' Short. Very short, and nothing if not formal. She had even added her seal at the end.

Remus wondered what her other choices were, if perhaps she had sent this to all the names on her list or just him – if the names were really that bad that she would chose him, a werewolf, over whichever other wizard she might be compatible with. Cassiopeia Lestrange, seventeen and pureblood or Minerva McGonagall, sixty-three and half-blood Animagus. A stranger, or a mother-figure. (It was not a question. The wolf inside of him would never settle with McGonagall.)

He penned his response, in his oldest quill and on the thinnest parchment he could find.

.

Le Diamant Noir was a French restaurant in one of the side streets of Diagon Alley. Remus had never been, what with a cup of tea being at ten pounds, and as he walked towards the entrance of the restaurant, dressed in the smartest robes he could find and yet still appearing proletarian to the couples coming out, he wondered if McGonagall wouldn't have been better. The Scottish Witch had floo-ed him, a few nights ago, telling him in her no-nonsense voice that she damn well hoped he wasn't going to get down on one knee because one of her old Transfiguration Master friends had been on her list and she had the full intention of saying yes. Remus had laughed, relieved and condemned at the same time. He hadn't told her who was left. She hadn't asked.

And yet, as he rose the three steps that offset the entrance to Le Diamant Noir from the rest of the streets, he wondered if McGonagall might take him back. Surely, he could appeal to her with sex. The thought made him uneasy.

A porter looked at him a little strangely, but duly opened the door to the restaurant. The Maître d'hôtel inside was perhaps more used to his job, because he didn't even appear fazed by Remus' presence.

"_good afternoon, sir." The elderly man in a white livery saluted him. Remus felt uneasy.

"_yes, hello." He shuffled. "I am here with Cassiopeia Lestrange, please?"

He didn't know why he had said please. He had no business saying please at the end of that sentence, but Remus had been so uncomfortable that he couldn't help but trip over himself with politeness.

"_if you would follow me, sir." the Maître d'hôtel said, and Remus wouldn't have thought about not doing as asked. He wondered if he looked as pathetic as he felt.

The restaurant was luxurious. As Remus allowed himself to be led towards a private room (how did they have enough money to pay for that, he wondered) he couldn't help but take in the indoor fountains, the orange-bearing trees and the fine silver cutlery set on pristine tables. Even after the war, with the toll it had taken on magical Britain, the restaurant was full.

"_here we are, sir." the elder man said with a short bow. He rasped his knuckles on the wooden door twice, waiting in silence for the muffled "enter" that followed soon after. The white-wearing man opened the door, never stepping into the room but leaving his place for Remus to come in first. It took the werewolf a second too long to cross the threshold. (The door closed behind him with a sound not unlike fate.)

"_Luna?" Remus asked, surprised to see the younger Lovegood sat at the table, to the left of a young man in dashing dress robes. It took him a second longer to place him, though his clear ocean-blue eyes were unmistakable. "And Theodore Nott."

"_good morning, professor." the airy witch replied with a smile.

"_Mr Lupin" acknowledged Nott with a nod. This left the third person, a witch with curly black hair, as Cassiopeia.

"_Miss Lestrange." Remus half-asked, executing a somewhat stilted bow and stepping closer at the same time. He saw Theodore wince from the corner of his eyes.

"_Mr Lupin, please take a seat." the witch replied, choosing to ignore what had made her cousin – was Theodore her cousin? – wince.

"_Cassiopeia has been very worried." Luna said to no one in particular. She still had her soft voice, but her expression seemed more absent since the war. It had been kind to no one.

"_I wouldn't say worried, Luna." Theodore corrected with a small smile. "Simply curious."

"_curiously worried." the part-Seer offered instead, her hand coming to rest on the young man's forearm. He tensed for a second, almost about to shun her touch, before seemingly melting.

"_perhaps." Theodore said, and Remus was sure he had missed something in that exchange. Silence settled.

"_you look lovely, Luna." Remus said once it had become heavy. And she did. Luna had braided daisies in her hair, in a crown that wouldn't have been amiss on Beltane, and the dresses she had layered were bright enough to make her eclipse the sun. The dark circles underneath her eyes had faded since the war, and she looked almost well rested. Happier, if that could be the case. Remus was glad to see her such.

"_thank you." the young Ravenclaw beamed. "Theodore has been very good at chasing my nargles away. They don't like him so much, and my head feels a lot better since then."

He expected sneers, perhaps, or even a half derisive laugh from one of the Slytherins. Remus knew that, even when she had been amongst friends, people had never quite managed to handle her fantastical creatures well. Theodore smiled, and Cassiopeia looked thoughtful. The silence stretched again.

"_why don't we have a look at the menu?" Cassiopeia finally offered, when she realised that no one was quite willing to address the elephant in the room. "I must admit that breakfast was a long time ago."

Nott sent her a look that made Remus think she was lying, but he was not about to call her on it when she had just given him the perfect opportunity to hide behind the thick leather-bound menus. That it bought him a couple more seconds to study his wife-to-be was also a good thing.

The prices on the list made Remus feel uneasy. His eyes flickered up and down, trying to find something that wouldn't imply he'd have to eat canned food for the next two months, when Luna spoke again.

"_Theodore said he was inviting us, isn't it so lovely of him, professor Lupin?"

"_I am no longer your professor, Luna." he chided, almost without thinking, before her words reached his brain. Luna was a lovely girl, and Remus was ever so glad to have her with him at this dinner. (And how pathetic did that make him feel?) "And indeed, that is very kind of Mr Nott. Thank you." He added, almost as an afterthought. Theodore shared a glance with his cousin, before smiling wryly.

"_you might as well call me Theodore, Mr Lupin, since you are about to wed my cousin." The werewolf looked back down at his menu.

"_don't look so distraught, Mr Lupin." the witch on his left said after a moment's silence. "I might take offense." She offered him a smile to accompany her words, trying to soften their harshness, but Theodore laughed and the tension was broken.

"_this entire business is stifling" Theodore said with a look at Luna. "And we sound like our parents, 'Mr Lupin', 'Miss Lestrange' – you are going to be living with each other soon enough."

Cassiopeia looked at her cousin for a second too long, grey eyes glittering and hard before they softened. Luna's hand was still on his arm.

"_you are right, Theodore. As always." she offered with a smile that belied her words. "Remus" she said, uneasily. "I wanted to talk about, well – about domestic issues." He raised an eyebrow.

"_such as?"

Cassiopeia looked – not uncomfortable, though he supposed that once you had dined with Voldemort and survived, nothing much would make you uncomfortable – calm, she looked calm; but concerned.

"_Lestrange Manor. Do you object to living there?"

He had to think this through rationally. His first instinct was to say no. He didn't want to have anything to do with a Death Eater mansion, and even less the one of the Lestranges who had tortured Frank and Alice into madness. But he had to be rational about this. His flat was small, and on the outskirts of London. It was dirty and the taps leaked. It wasn't somewhere he wanted his bride, even if she was just the by-product of the Law, to be. It wasn't somewhere appropriate. Lestrange Manor was.

"_not for now." Remus offered, a compromise between the need to stay there for now and the horror it inspired in him. Cassiopeia nodded. She flipped a page of her menu, and seemed to resume browsing, before her grey eyes flickered up to him.

"_I had planned on keeping my name." she said in one breath, worrying her lip between her teeth. Theodore's eyes flashed, and she stopped, before her eyes met his and held contact. "for political reasons. I would like your opinion on this."

She was trying, Remus would give her that. It obviously mattered to her a lot, but she was trying and he would, again, meet her half-way.

"_that sounds fine for the moment." She looked weary at the caveat he instilled in his words. "We will have to discuss the matter of – " his breath hitched. "Children."

"_indeed." She put a curl back behind her ear, and went back to her menu. Sensing the end of the discussion, Remus did too.

.

They spent lunch in relative harmony, discussing here and there what their plans for the future had been before the Law. Luna, the three of them were surprised to learn, had wanted to tour the world in the search for the ever mystical Golden Groburry; an animal reputed in cryptomagizoology as growing wool which could, when prepared correctly and used in the right potions, heal anything. Theodore, who had no plans beyond sitting his N.E.W.T.S. and moping around his house (with his cousin) promised to take them on an extended honey moon if she would let him pass his exams first. Luna had agreed, rather enthusiastically if her talk of Hummingdeons coming back to nest in English gardens was anything to go by. Remus had admitted that he was still looking for a job, though Headmistress McGonagall had hinted that there might yet be space for him at Hogwarts. Teaching, Remus had admitted, was something he had greatly enjoyed and the position of Professor was not one he had been keen on turning down. However, with the Law passed –

"_you should do what makes you happy." Cassiopeia had said, with a determined tilt of her chin. Theodore had looked at her, wide-eyed, and even Luna had fixed her otherworldly grey stare onto the girl.

"_would you want to live at Hogwarts?" Remus asked, somewhat cagily. He was well aware that, as the place Voldemort had died, Hogwarts was a sensitive topic for most Slytherins age fourteen or over. That Cassiopeia and her cousin Theodore had planned to take their N.E.W.T.S. from home rather than returning as Eighth Years told him enough.

"_no." the witch conceded. "but it would be different, I think. I wouldn't have to sleep in the – " a hitch. "dungeons."

Theodore looked at his cousin carefully, eyes set on the girl who appeared adamant not to give anything away. He looked back at Lupin, a raised eyebrow asking clearly 'well, what are you going to do?' He had the feeling of some sort of assessment being passed, before Remus offered Cassiopeia a small smile.

"_we can discuss this further, later."

Later seemed to be the key word during their lunch, all four (well three, since Luna cared very little for it) decided not to let the discussion turn awkward or heavy.

Dessert had come and gone (and Remus had enjoyed his chocolate mousse very much) when Theodore and Luna asked to be excused and bade the two of them goodbye. They left the room, Theodore paying for their meal on his way out, and neither Remus nor Cassiopeia missed the rather proprietary hand the young Lord Nott had placed in the small of Luna's back. It made his cousin smile, because perhaps it wasn't love, perhaps it wasn't even anything beyond fondness, an appreciation for a mind that saw differently to others – but it had been a long time since Theodore had been happy. And she had hopes, she really did, that Luna would carry on making Theodore happy. He was already learning her, listening to the way she spoke and hearing the words she didn't say beneath those she uttered and Theodore was, slowly, gently, decoding Luna. He listened when she spoke of nargles disappearing off and knew she said he abated her worries. He listened to Hummingdeons coming back into English gardens because it meant that happiness was slowly seeping back to them. He listened, and he learnt, and Theodore had been nothing if not an exemplary student.

And, perhaps, if Theodore could make the heaviness of Luna's fears slip away from her face, if he could help the dark bags underneath her eyes recede, if he could take her hands and shelter her from the wind; then perhaps it might be this elusive love, after all. Perhaps the Old Magic really was watching over them.

Cassiopeia looked back to her husband-to-be. (Perhaps not all of them.)

"_all the names on my letter turned grey this morning. I assumed it was you?"

Lupin nodded slowly.

"_I am sorry, if you had any other potential suitors that you were considering. Headmistress McGonagall married a Master of Transfiguration."

A quirky smile.

"_you had the Headmistress on your list?" Cassiopeia hid a laugh behind her smile. "That's – a compliment, I suppose." she added with a snicker. Remus rolled his eyes playfully.

"_and who was on yours?" he asked, seeing the opening for what it was.

"_Fornax Bulstrode and Ignatius Yaxley."

"_I don't know either of them." Remus said with a half shrug. "How were they?"

Cassiopeia smiled stiffly.

"_Bulstrode beats his daughter and killed his wife. Yaxley is sixty-five." Silence. Remus ran a hand through his hair.

"_I see." he said – and she wasn't sure he saw. She wasn't sure he saw, but it didn't matter because it wasn't like anything could change. With Lupin's four other choices having married, they were automatically bonded. The marriage papers would be a mere formality.

"_when would you like to go to the Ministry?" she asked instead, because no matter how long she put it off, it wouldn't change the fact that they were already married and if they didn't do it now, the Old Magic would do it for them on the first of May.

"_I don't mind." Remus said awkwardly. "Whenever works best for you."

Both tried not to think about what came next, after the ministerial paperwork. The – shagging part.

"_tomorrow?" she offered, quietly. "Beltane is our deadline, and the furthest we are from it, the least we risk a surprise in nine months' time."

He hadn't realised it would be Beltane. (Yet another one of these little details that purebloods were raised to know.) Of course, the vernal magic of Beltane would promote fertility for the new couples. It was probably why the Ministry had set dusk on the thirtieth as their deadline.

"_alright. I'll pick you up from Lestrange Manor at ten?" Remus offered. She didn't meet his eye.

"_I was planning on having an official come over." Grey eyes flickered over to him, and darted away as soon as she realised he had been looking at her. "But we can go if you prefer."

"_is this because I'm a werewolf?" Remus asked carefully. Better sort it out now, he reasoned, than later. Better be settled now than later.

"_no!" she hurried to say. "No, not at all." Her eyes darted around the room. "Ever since the – " she winced, and breathed carefully. "the cave-in, at Hogwarts, we've not – it's been – underground rooms and crowded places are – "she looked for the word, but couldn't find it. "Tricky." she finally offered him, though it felt inadequate on her tongue. Tricky did not begin to cover the feelings associated with drowning in a dark, closed off space whilst tiny First Years panicked, close enough to smell their fear in the cold, sombre waters. "Listen" she said again, clearly embarrassed. "Be there tomorrow, at ten, and then we'll decide, right?

"_okay." Remus answered easily.

(In the end, they ended up going to the Ministry. Her back was stiff the whole time, and he thought she would hex someone when the lift began crowding, but she made it through the day to the ceremony; and Remus wondered if she might not have made a good Gryffindor.)

.

His wolf was restless.

Whilst the woman standing beside him was not mate, not pack, not something Moony could easily identify, the Old Magic involved in the binding ritual had been familiar to the one that had passed him his lycanthropy and it had awakened his inner wolf without mercy. That Beltane would be held the night of the second full moon did not help in the slightest to calm Moony, who wanted nothing more than to expand the strenuous energy in a – _productive_ way. Perhaps Cassiopeia had sensed it, because after they had signed their papers, she had immediately apparated them to the Lestrange Manor and given him the most abridged tour of the house. That she had pointed out the House Bed and told him they would share these rooms had not settled Moony in any way, shape or form. She had then left him, her personal belongings having already been moved to the Master Suite, and had encouraged him to use the afternoon to acquaint himself with the place and bring some of his clothes over already. She had also hinted he might want a nap to make sure he was 'up for it' later, which had made Moony howl at the challenge.

And now was later.

They had had dinner, a quick affair during which they hadn't spoken much, before she had excused herself from his presence. She had gone to get ready in one of the many rooms of the Manor, leaving Remus to take a shower and settle comfortable in the settee inside the Master Suite with a book. He was having trouble reading though, his mind jumping from thought to thought as he waited for his wife. (His wife!)

"_really? Machiavelli on our wedding night?" Remus jumped at the voice, so close to his ear that he could not believe he hadn't heard her come in. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and walked over to the cabinets in a corner of the room. The Master Bedroom was just beyond the sitting room where they were, its presence burning at the edge of their awareness like a beacon. Remus tried not to focus too much, and put the book aside to look at his wife.

He promptly shifted the book so that it was back on his lap.

She had tried, and he appreciated it. His wolf even more, if the sudden urge to simply have her was anything to go by. Perhaps it was the thought of her that aroused the beast, perhaps it was the sight of the peach silk on her pale skin. Not white, not quite virginal, but peach in a tone that was just darker than her skin, with gold – champagne, she would argue, not gold – lace trimmings. The gown she had on over her negligee was almost see through, and the firelight danced over the curves of her figure. She wasn't beautiful, too straight backed and rigid for that, but she was the result of years of pureblood inbreeding and there was something ethereal about the woman in the dancing light. Her hair was down, the first time since he had met her, and it fell in riotous curls down her back, black and luscious. She had tried to look pretty tonight.

She was barefooted. Her toenails had been done, painted a dark plum colour that was not red but not green either, and he thought it was an acceptable compromise. They would be a series of compromises, he knew.

"_would you like a glass?" she asked, quietly, the words thrown over her shoulder as if she could not feel him looking at her.

"_yes, please." Remus nodded, voice a little deeper than it had been since then. She turned around to walk back, two glasses in hand, and almost shivered at the sight of those golden eyes fixed on her. The full moon was close, she knew, and her husband had not tried to hide his condition. She had never felt it so strongly, though.

"_here." she said quietly, instead of the thousands of questions she wanted to ask. Their fingers grazed when she handed him the glass of whiskey. She noted the book in his lap, and settled next to him on the couch instead. Cassiopeia tucked her feet up, leant a little more than acceptable against her husband and laid a hand on his knee as she brought the firewhiskey to her lips.

"_what did you think of it?" she asked, once she had made circles out of the smoke.

"_of what?" Remus replied, transfixed by her tiny hand on his worn-out trousers.

"_Machiavelli." she said, with a note of amusement in her voice. His amber eyes flickered over to her, to the way the firelight played across her throat, the gaping fabric that revealed the curve of a breast, to the hand tracing slow, unhurried circles on his knee, and he found it much harder to speak.

"_good." he said, unsure he might be able to manage more than couple of syllables. He swallowed a little too much whiskey and coughed out smoke. Her fingers stilled on his knee. "have you read it?" he asked, desperate for them to begin their motion again. She stayed silent for a second, then picked up the book in his lap and brought it to her face.

"_yes." she said, as she memorised his page number. "a long time ago." She closed the book carefully and set it down on the low mahogany table. Her empty glass of firewhiskey followed suite. "The Prince is better." she added, somewhat cattily. He almost didn't hear it, too preoccupied with the way she was suddenly straddling him, legs either side of his body and throat so unnervingly close to his nose. He could smell her, beneath the soft smelling soap she had used, and the wolf howled for him to take her then. Remus settled a hand on her waist, and breathed in. "too much?" she asked, voice thick. His thumb moved over the silken negligee, and her heard her sharp, sudden intake of breath.

"_no." Remus said, careful not to let it out as a growl. "this is good."

She smiled, kissing his cheek softly, and her hair cascaded down around them, tickling his cheeks and slipping down his neck. Her fingers moved over his shirt, loosening his tie slowly enough that, should he wish to, he could stop her. He didn't make a sound. Carefully, she kissed the arcade of his jaw, lips dragging along his scars. His fingers clenched on her hip, almost digging into the soft flesh and she stopped, looking at him in the eye.

"_is this okay?" she asked quietly, trying to read the answer on his face.

"_yes." he said, then cleared his voice when it came out as a croaking whisper. "It's fine."

She smiled, taking the tumbler from his hands and setting it beside hers on the table. He was looking at her oddly when she turned back to him, eyes burning on her skin. She wanted to ask what it was, the question was on her tongue, but she refrained. He would tell her soon enough. Softly, shyly, she let her hands rest against his chest. She thought back to the boys in Durmstrang, to how none of them had hands this big or this warm, and none of them amber eyes that made her feel like a prey, and closed her eyes in the hope that, regardless, he would kiss like they had kissed. Slowly, she pressed her lips to his, begging fervently in her mind for something, anything to happen because she had no idea what to do from there, no idea if she should simply kiss him and then go back to his shirt or if she should kiss him again or –

Oh.

One of his hands fisted in her hair, resting over the point where her neck met her skull and it was a very fragile place, she knew, and his hand there was big and broad and he used it to tilt her face slightly to the left and then his lips were moving against hers and she had to grip his shirt not to fall. Her head was spinning, so she breathed in through her nose and kissed him again. And again. And once more, but then his hand slipped down from her waist, skirted over her hips and settled on her thigh, just where the negligee no longer covered skin, and she could feel his hand, the callouses and the warmth, and the fear, the excitation, the headiness curled in her stomach. He growled, and his fingernails dragged against the soft plane of her inner thigh and she thought she might have mewled – perhaps it wasn't that, perhaps it was just her breath leaving her in jagged, heaving pants but he did it again, this time higher underneath the slip and she was wearing no underwear and – he felt that. His fingers flexed, almost reflexively, and he had to break from the kiss to breathe for a second. His face fell to the column of her neck, where her collarbone jutted and his breath fanned over her skin, skittering down her breasts and pebbling her nipples from the cold. She shifted, her thighs cramping from the half raise she was in, and his hands dragged against her skin, by accident, as she crossed her ankles behind his back. Her thighs fell wide open, and the slip rose so high it hardly covered her, but Remus did his best not to look, not yet, because he was so close to losing it, Moody lurking underneath his skin and if he allowed the haze to take over, he would brand her and mark her and she wasn't ready for that yet. She didn't understand yet what was happening.

"_Remus?" she asked, quiet, uncertain, hands pressed flat against his chest.

"_just a second." he breathed, trying not to inhale her scent too much, nor to look, nor to touch. She shifted again, pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck and tried to settle herself more comfortably. His fingers curled in her hair as she pressed her lips against his skin again. "Stop." he said, quietly. "The wolf is – " he couldn't quite finish his sentence, trying to push it all back down, to calm the beast and breathe.

"_the wolf is always going to be here." she said quietly, after the silence stretched and his breathing didn't ease. "What is it that the wolf wants?"

"_you." he breathed, and immediately tried to amend the word. "To claim you, and brand you. He wants to mark you."

Perhaps it was the word – mark – which he hadn't thought about when he used it. It had special connotations, 'to mark', especially now, and the way she went rigid in his arms made him wonder if he had just ruined it all (again). Then, slowly, carefully, with all the determination of a woman who had eaten with Lord Voldemort and danced and breathed in his presence, she kissed his nape again.

"_okay." she said, quietly. Her spine was still stiff, but she her voice was warm and she was making a compromise, broking an argument with his wolf and reaching an agreement. "somewhere discrete, please, but okay."

And then she lifted his face and kissed his lips and the wolf howled inside of him, begged and raged for him to take her, to claim her, and so he kissed her back and his hands stroked her skin and he let her undo his tie and all his buttons and tried not to shiver when her hands, cold and fine boned, spread against the warm planes of his chest. She smiled, and she shivered a little when he pushed the robe off her shoulders, leaving her only in the silken negligee, but she didn't say 'no' and he carried on, careful, eyes wide open as not to miss a thing. She let him slip the thin straps off her shoulders, let him kiss her neck and palm her breasts and when one hand skittered over the silk, reaching between her thighs as he carried on sucking at her neck, she whimpered and curled her fingers into his skin and left scratch marks on his shoulders. He laughed, rumbling against her and the vibrations spread into her from his chest, wrecking through her body and liquefying her inside. One of her hands skidded over to his chest, fingernails grazing over his nipples, her wrist awkwardly angled as she went lower, lower until she reached his belt and a growl left his throat, unlike any she had heard before. He grabbed her wrist, holding her in place and she mewled – surely the sound leaving her throat could only be that – and his laugh came out strained.

"_the bed." He said, not quite intelligible in the haze that had taken over her mind but she thought she understood his command and tried to rise. Her legs were jelly, so she braced herself against his shoulder. Her robe had fallen off, but she fixed the straps of her negligee, almost absent-mindedly, and although she wasn't sure she could stand, she tried to. Her legs were wobbly, but he steadied her with a hand to her waist and she hadn't quite noticed before how big his hands were – how, with a single touch, he could stroke the underside of her breast and curl into her hipbone and it felt warm, so warm through the silk, like he was setting her on fire with a single touch and watching her burn. His second hand gripped her other hip, and perhaps she would have objected, normally, perhaps she would have taken a step forward to be out of his possessive embrace, but she couldn't think straight and she wasn't sure she would have made it to the bed without tripping if he hadn't grounded her with those big, warm, calloused hands digging in her flesh. She could barely see, her blood pounding in her ears and her thighs sticky, each step wafting the cool air up and making her shiver. She could feel, from time to time, if she took too short a step or stumbled, him pressed against her back, the way she had aroused him jutting into her back and she wasn't sure what that was in her stomach, perhaps fear or elation or giddiness, but there was something blinding her to all but the thought of his hands on her skin and his hardness at her back.

 _'Perhaps'_ , she thought suddenly, and almost tripped at how daring she had been ' _perhaps he would take me from behind. Perhaps he will push me forward and grip my hair and put a hand on my hip and the wolf will growl and I won't know up or down, left from right_.' Her eyes flickered up, at the amber man who was focused on the wide bed and getting her on it, and she wondered if instead he might not lay her on her back and hook her ankles over his shoulders and fill her to the brim. She wondered if he would touch her, if he might speak to her as he did it, tell her all the things he wanted to do with that growl in his voice and she wondered if she could come from listening to him growl alone. She wondered if he might mark her as he pounded into her, wondered if he might hold her down as he snapped his hips, bite harshly – on her hip, perhaps, or maybe at the underside of her breast and she wondered if the man might like her too.

They hovered at the edge of the bed, for a moment, her turning around to meet his eyes and she laughed when she realised she hadn't finished unbuttoning his shirt, still tucked inside his trousers, and her hands reached for his belt. He watched her, as she struggled with the buckle, undid it with a half smirk and tugged his shirt out. She made quick work of the last few buttons, getting onto her tip toes to push it off his shoulders and the sight was delicious, strained leg muscles and arched back, the slip rising over her thighs and dipping at the hollow of her waist. His shirt was tossed somewhere near a chair, perhaps atop of it, and then she went back to his trousers, shivering when one of his hands – the one not splayed across her back like a flag of ownership – dipped between her thighs and arched against her core.

"_oh." she said, like something had just occurred to her, and she had to leave his trousers alone and focus on breathing for a little while, whilst his fingers flicked at her nub and his palm pressed against her pubis and he growled at the wetness.

"_witch." he said, like the word explained the thousands of colours she was seeing behind her closed eyelids – and perhaps it did, perhaps there was magic here too, Old Magic that made her body hum and her hands shake. She tried to open her eyes, to concentrate on him and getting rid of the clothes that meant he couldn't do all those things she'd thought of, when he slipped two fingers inside and crooked them and suddenly it wasn't just colours she was seeing, but galaxies and stars at the edge of her vision, supernova bursting and birthing inside her chest like a coil of iron that had been wound too tight and snapped, suddenly, coil and recoil of the sea, the tides and she thought the universe shifted and spun off its axis for the barest of a second.

"_oh." she said, softly, again, like a thought had just occurred to her. "Remus." She added, because it was only right he realised it was all his fault that she couldn't see now, blinded by the after-image of those stars bursting, all at once, in full brightness. She was blind, but she thought she could see it all; the perfectly made bed and the scars on his chest and the way her breath made his skin tighten and the dark colour of his nipples and the red strikes she had left over his skin, angry cat scratches that had nothing to do with the sudden weakness in her legs. He had stopped moving but not retracted, and she could feel drops of – of her – rolling down the inside of her thighs and she imagined there were some on his fingers too, sliding against his skin and the oddest of thought came into her head. How did she taste? Remus moved his fingers out, and she keened at the sudden emptiness, feeling warm and oversensitive, as if the barest brush of his skin against hers might call back the stars and send waves of colour crashing into her vision. Was she – sweet? Or did she taste like the food she had eaten at lunch? Remus removed his hand, and she grabbed it, sudden and curious, and when she brought it to her lips, to taste, she flickered her eyes upwards to watch him. She wondered what he thought. She trailed her tongue against his fingers, the barest of touch, and could not taste a thing; so she sucked a finger into her mouth, two when it proved easier and there she was, salty and strange, familiar but not quite and perhaps this was her, perhaps this was more – or less – she wasn't sure but she'd think about it later because Remus' eyes darkened and they hungered as he watched her, and soon enough it wasn't his hand in her mouth but his lips on hers and he pushed her down, to lay on the bed, his erection firmly against her stomach – when had he removed his trousers? – and his hands all over her body again, pulling her negligee up until he had to break the kiss so he could tug if off. She had the urge to cover herself, never before had she been naked in front of a man, but perhaps the firewhiskey had done its job, perhaps Remus saw it in her face, perhaps she wouldn't have anyway; but he kissed her neck and palmed her breast and she couldn't help but close her eyes again and try not to scratch him too badly. ' _This is good_.' she thought blearily, between two kisses that tasted like brine. And then he sucked on her nipple and this was more than just good, more than just nice, this was something she'd never felt before and it was all hers, all his, and yes, yes – this was Old Magic. This was them. And then he kissed her again, except this time there was something else in that kiss that called her back down to earth, and then she felt him rubbing against her, big and swollen and a need she couldn't be denied, so she spread her thighs like she'd always been taught not to do and crossed her ankles over his hips and prayed to Morgana he would never stop.

It hurt. It hurt, and she'd never done this before, and it hurt so much she thought she was going to cry. Perhaps she was crying, because suddenly he was kissing her cheeks and not moving and wiping at her face, and surely it wasn't rain, it wasn't dew but tears – why would he stop, why would she cry –

"_please" she said, though if it was 'please don't stop' or 'please no' she wasn't sure and perhaps he wasn't sure either but he needed it too, like herself, and the tears weren't really there because she didn't feel them, not like she felt herself stretch and fill and "please" she said again, breathier, needier, and this time he understood something; though what she didn't know, and he moved again, the barest of fraction that wasn't quite enough so she said it again "please" like a prayer or a mantra, a chant she took up again and again "please Remus please" and he did. He moved and he kissed her still dewy cheeks and he rubbed at her swollen nipples and snapped his hips, gently at first and then faster and faster until she could hear their skin against each other and feel him hitting deep inside of her and her hips hurt, so she shifted slightly and – there. There were stars and she gasped and that "oh" escaped her again, like an ingenue as the fabric of the world shifted and lifted and she saw beyond magic. "Remus" she said, like a prayer and he heard her, he heard her because he hit it again, that spot inside herself that she'd never felt before, and the world erupted once more. Her breath fell, and her body went limp but he hid his face in the crook of her neck and snapped his hips against her ragdoll body, once, twice, and she began falling down from whatever high she'd reached as he snapped once more against her abused hips so he growled and sucked and nipped at her breast until she was panting again, breathing harsh and needy and she felt bruised, overstimulated but good, good in a way she hadn't felt before and it was all him, all his hands and his lips and his body on hers, in hers and she said his name again, felt the pressure build just behind her eyelids and she threw her head backwards, arched her back and pushed into him. She felt him rigidify, felt his teeth clamp down on the underside of her breast, break the skin and she cried out against the pain but he didn't hear, didn't listen and she thought perhaps he had reached his own stars, was in his own galaxies, with his own colours and when he came back down to her, once he was panting and she was full and the world had started spinning again, she slowly uncrossed her ankles. She felt empty, and spent, and she didn't want to move, so he rolled off her and laid next to her, on his back, scratch marks and bite marks and soft nipples already pebbling in the cold air, and closed his eyes. She watched him as a smile appeared on his face.

"_Remus?" she asked, once she was sure his breath was even and he had gone to sleep. He didn't shift, so she thought she was clear to come closer, to tuck her cold feet underneath his warm legs and curl a hand over his heartbeat, and she startled a little when he pulled her closer but his eyes were still closed so she smiled as well as made herself comfortable.

She wouldn't tell if he didn't.

.

Cassiopeia Lestrange-Lupin (Lupin!) opened her eyes, nose tickled by the smell of fresh coffee, and promptly closed them again. Her hips ached, and there was a sharp pain on the underside of her left breast that immediately brought fire to her cheeks. She remembered the night before, and tried to smother her face in a cushion to help the embarrassment pass. The pain that shot up her spine at the movement, abused body growling against its mistreatment, did not help the red to suffuse from her face, and her pillow chuckled oddly in response. ' _Not a pillow_ ' Cassiopeia thought blearily. It was indeed too warm and too firm to be a pillow. She noted that, for once, her feet were not cold underneath the duvet and tried to summon memories of the night before. They seeped back in slowly, as she worked her way through the evening in her mind. There had been talk of Machiavelli, and firewhiskey. The blood pounding in her ears, boldness that had nothing to do with courage and the desperation to work past the initial awkwardness, to enjoy herself as she had never done with the Durmstrang boys. There had been warm hands, she remembered, and teeth and stars at the edge of her vision.

"_oh." Cassiopeia said softly, as she began to remember the noises, the sights, the brightness that had taken over her chest and burnt her from within. She was – a woman. Her hips ached.

"_good morning." came the voice from last night, worn and tired but sated. Rough still. She wondered if his eyes were still golden.

"_good morning." she replied in turn, burying her face against his side in a bid for more time to compose herself. "do I smell coffee?" she asked into this skin, her lips brushing against a scratch she had been the one to make. It came out as unintelligible garble, but Remus had awoken for the same reason and understood well enough what she had meant.

"_the elves – Isi and Tensi, I think? – brought some. And breakfast, if I am not mistaken."

She hummed into his side, trying not to let the awkwardness of daylight take over what had been a most delightful evening. She could look him in the eye, Cassiopeia decided. She was a daughter of the House of Lestrange; it wasn't a sheer night of delightful pleasure that would stop her from meeting the eye of her husband.

"_what time is it?" she asked, instead of the inane questions that bustled in her mind.

"_between nine and ten" Remus replied, having heard the grandfather clock chime some time ago. The tempus charm seemed like too much effort at the moment.

"_we have much to discuss." Cassiopeia said without much conviction, eyes still closed and breathing relaxed. Her lips brushed against his skin with each word she said, sending tingles up his side and ticking his ribs. Breakfast would have to be postponed for a cold shower if she did not stop soon.

Remus shifted uneasily as she breathed out a sigh, sending her warm breath skittering over his skin. He tried to bite back a groan, but she must have felt his muscles tense because her head rose from where she was hiding, and those sleepy grey eyes of hers bore into him with a measure of surprise.

"_Remus?" she asked, more clearly than before. He waved a hand dismissively.

"_don't mind me." He said quietly, trying not to focus on the way her body was pressed to his side or the soft skin of her breast rubbing against his arm as she breathed. She dragged herself up to eyelevel, skin against skin in a slow slide and concerned grey eyes bore into him.

"_are you alright?" she asked, not an ounce of mischief in her voice. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, one of her knees digging between his legs and surely, Remus thought, she would be the death of him.

"_I'm fine." he said, somewhat forcefully. "I just need a shower." he added with a wry tone, trying to hint at the problem arising (and that was a good way to describe it) without forcing her to confront it. It took her a second to work through the layers of meanings, before her cheeks burnt a bright crimson and she adverted her gaze. Her lips curled into a smile, and when she placed a hand on his chest and lightly dragged her fingernails; she knew exactly what she was doing.

"_do you want me to take care of it?" she asked, voice lilting and lips trailing against his jaw. Remus stiffened unexpectedly.

"_I – er – what?" he asked, unsure he had fully comprehended what she just offered as she curly haired witch smiled against his jaw. A cold hand pressed against his lower stomach, trailing ever so slowly down to his raging morning erection.

"_do you want a little help with that?" she asked again, hand curling around the base of his shaft because this she knew, this she had done before with certain measure of success and there was something different about the morning after, about the light of the day that made this more official than last night had. This was her, offering to be a wife in the morning light, firewhiskey burnt from her veins and head clear enough despite the sleepiness. This was ever so real. She was ever so real.

She murmured a lubricating spell, hand firm and sure and she snapped her wrist twice, in rapid succession, before slowly going up his shaft, flicking the foreskin with her thumb and spreading the pre-cum in a wide circle. She trailed back the length, three times at a fast pace, followed a vein with her finger and fondled his ball sack. A strange noise made its way out of his throat. Grey eyes flickered up, observing carefully the way his jaw clenched, and his eyes closed, and his breathing became a little bit more erratic. (She tried not to think too much about the fact that he was forty-something, tried to remember the Durmstrang boys that had dragged her into darkened corridors and wondered if he too was recalling someone else as she increased her pace and flicked once, twice, seeing how his neck pulsed and his back went rigid and he was so close, so close so she brought her second hand to his ball sack, palmed it and flicked his perineum and there – there, like the Durmstrang boys, he spilt all over his belly, all over her hand and fell, boneless, against the mattress.) Cassiopeia watched him pant, try to catch his breath, but her hips still ached and her breast were still sore so she rolled out of bed, licked her hand to see if he too tasted like brine, and went to draw them a bath. She could feel his semen from last night rolling down her thighs, warm and cold at the same time, making her thighs stickier yet, and her hips jarred with every step. The sweat had cooled on her skin and a chill had settled in her bones, so she ran the bath hot enough to scald and let steam fill the bathroom. It was a large bath, large enough for two or three, and Cassiopeia felt something shift in her throat, perhaps all the panic from the night before, curling in her stomach and begging her to lock the door and hide forever. Her hands shook, and fear curled in her stomach – what had she done? What had she done, sleeping with a werewolf and a man twice her age and liking it, liking the way he had drawn back the fabric of the world and made her see stars and she hadn't even thought of casting the contraceptive spell, hadn't even realised she might need it and neither had he and what if – what if –

She breathed in through her nose, and out through her mouth.

"_what a lovely bite-mark." the mirror told her, grounding the witch. "and those bruises – my, my. Someone had a night of the likes I haven't seen in a while."

"_quiet, Mirror." she said, her breathing evening slowly.

"_ahh, but you and yours charmed me my dear, why would I hush?"

"_what is your name?" Cassiopeia asked instead, hands still firmly clinging onto the marble counted and breathing almost back to normal. (She was a witch of the House of Lestrange, and she would not hide nor run like a coward. She had dined with Voldemort, she could very well face her husband.)

"_Alphard, dearest." She looked at him strangely.

"_and you inhabit all the mirrors in these suites, Alphard?" He preened and laughed underneath her weary eyes.

"_my Lady is most knowledgeable. Yes, my dear, like the Hydra I have many faces."

Cassiopeia nodded carefully.

"_well then, Alphard. Here is to hopefully a great many years of enjoying your counsel."

"_my Lady is too good." the Mirror purred, almost indecently. Cassiopeia felt the urge to cover herself, before reason smacked her upside the head and she straightened her spine. She breathed in and out, trying to find the same desperation that had spurred her last night, before she strode out of the door and passed the House Bed, still as naked as the day she was born. She swish-and-flicked her fingers, levitating the breakfast tray the Elves had brought from the Sitting Room and into the bathroom, glancing at her husband over her shoulder as she left the door open, steam curling out;

"_are you coming?" she asked, with calculated and feigned casualness. She didn't see him scramble off the bed, but the rustle of sheets and slightly hurried steps that followed her in were enough clues. She breathed in and out once more, clinging onto her determination with the iron-will of a snake.

"_oh – " the Mirror spoke happily, seeing the naked male following her into the Bathroom. "Oh, my Lady, you are too kind."

"_quiet, Alphard." the witch said, and this time the Mirror obeyed, watching smugly as the werewolf tried not to look too much at the witch entering the bath. "well?" she said, eyeing her husband still standing awkwardly. "are you getting in?" She turned to look at the products on the side of the bath, trying to determine whether peppermint and clove or lavender might be best, but the Mirror could see the stiffening of her shoulders and the clenching of her jaw the longer it took the werewolf to enter the water. Eventually, after a wait that must have felt like an eternity to the curly haired woman, he joined her. "Mirror" she said, like her heart was not beating a thousand-miles-per-minute and her hands did not have the barest of trembles "peppermint or lavender?"

"_peppermint, my dear." he replied, as summoned. She opened the bottle, sniffed it and shrugged, passing it to her werewolf husband who looked stumped. He nodded yes, at loss, and she trickled the vial in, watching it bubble and hide their bodies from view. The smell of clove took over the bathroom.

"_good choice." she said, closing her eyes and settling more comfortably in the water. " _Accio_ Coffee." she added, one hand raised lazily over the water and a cup came zooming into her hand, full to the brim and yet unspilt. "Merlin bless these elves" she whispered as she hummed in her coffee. "Exactly what I needed."

Remus poured himself a cup of tea, and the smile that curled at the edge of the black-haired witch was not lost on the Mirror. Slytherin indeed.

.

"_I want this law repelled."

Remus looked over his book, _impervious_ ed to repel bathwater, and at the witch reading the Daily Prophet. She hadn't looked up, but her attention was not on the drivel in front of her.

"_like most of Britain." Remus said, edgily. They had been married for little more than a week now, and already he had learnt to beware her non-sequiturs. She tended to have an idea in mind. (Most, he admitted, were good ones; like sharing a bath or shagging in the library. Some, had proven a little less easy to comply with. A few had been morally grey.)

"_yes, well – I want it done."

Cassiopeia usually understood well enough that 'wanting' wasn't enough for something to happen, so Remus tried to think like the Slytherin. What response did she want from him?

"_what do you have in mind?" he asked, because it generally was a pretty safe question with her. She looked disappointed. Cassiopeia took a sip of her morning coffee, and wriggled her toes in the cooling bathwater. She murmured something and it heat up again. Remus waited.

"_how much do you want the Weasleys out of Azkaban?" she asked instead, and Remus had to hide a wince. She knew about Sirius – how he wasn't sure – but never had she brought it up like that, so directly.

"_very much." Remus said, thinking of thirteen years and dementors and a shaggy black dog that was innocent. "Very, very much."

"_much like what?" she prodded, eyes still on the paper and fingers wrapped around her cup. The bathroom wasn't suited to the conversation, not at all because it was light and airy and in sweet pastel tones, and this conversation was darker than tar.

"_I don't know what you mean." Remus said, and again her eyes flickered with disappointment. Speaking to her was an exercise in frustration.

"_much like murder?" she asked casually. "much like casting _crucio_? Or much like petrifying some poor bloke and leaving him hidden in a cupboard?"

He stayed silent for a long time, shocked at first, and then weary. He considered the thought.

(Had Harry been in Azkaban, he would not have hesitated to say much like murder, much like _crucio_. But Remus had to be honest, had to admit it; for all he liked Ron and Hermione, for all Hermione had protected his secret in her Third Year – he wasn't sure he was ready to kill for them.)

"_I see." his wife said instead, turning a page in the Prophet. She sipped her coffee. "Never mind."

Remus wondered why he felt like a coward.

.

On the fifth of July 1999, Harry James Potter was arrested by aurors and sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban on charges of sedition, attempted public unrest, attempted murder and crime against Magic.

No one understood why Potter, despite ample forewarning from unhappy aurors and members of the Ministry of Magic, did not escape Wizarding Britain and run from the law.

.

On the sixth of July 1999, Cassiopeia Lestrange-Lupin and her husband shared a bath again, as it was their tradition to do every morning whilst they ate breakfast and read.

"_I want this law repelled."

Remus looked over his book, _impervius_ ed to repel bathwater, and at the witch reading the Daily Prophet. She hadn't looked up, but her attention was not on the drivel in front of her.

"_and I want Harry out of Azkaban." he said evenly, waiting for her next move. He had often wondered at the conversation they had had. A small smile hovered over her lips. (Good. He was doing better.)

"_how much do you want Harry out of Azkaban?" she asked, and this time he did not wince, did not dally, did not hesitate.

"_very much like murder. Very much like _crucio_."

She folded her paper, set her cup aside and grinned, feral and unrepentant.

"_good, husband." Cassiopeia banished the breakfast tray, his book and her journal with barely a flick of her hand. "very good." she added, in a purr he hadn't heard for quite a while. The water sloshed as she sat up, crawling over to him and settling herself on his side of the bath. Her kiss had teeth.

.

Later, when the water has spilt over the rim of the bath and they are taking a shower, sweaty and sated, she takes soap and washes him. She's never done it before, because it's a pretty intimate thing to do, but she's doing it now, standing naked next to him underneath a never-ending stream of scalding water and Remus wonders if she's rewarding him for his answer. If she's been shaping him, subtly, softly, over the months, priming him for this moment where she asks and he answers as she wishes, answers of his own volition and accepts to do her bidding, to bow to her words because she has aligned their goals. He wonders if this is what having a wife is like.

Then her lips are on his cock, and he loses all ability to think.

.

Theodore and Luna join them, a couple of days after Remus sells her his soul, and he begins to suspect that this is bigger than just them. They have lunch in the gardens, because the rosebushes are in bloom and they smell nice, and all three teens talk about the N.E.W.T.S. they have sat, their plans for the future, their old school friends. And then dessert arrives, a dark chocolate mousse very much like the one he remembers eating at Le Diamant Noir, and Theodore breaches the topic first.

"_Luna and I invited Longbottom over for tea." her cousin says, and Cassiopeia is very careful in not reacting. Remus finds it odd Theodore should mention it.

"_what news does he bring?" she asks instead of the derisive comment she is prone to say, and Remus tunes into the conversation because he may have been a Gryffindor, but the Hat considered him for all the Houses but Slytherin. Remus asked for Gryffindor, but he could have very well gone to Ravenclaw.

"_he married Susan Bones, as you might know. They are just finishing their Eighth Year at Hogwarts."

"_did he?" she asks, softly, and her grey eyes flicker over to Luna. The blonde witch smiles at her. "What do you make of it, Luna?"

"_your roses are beautiful. They'll attract many a racoon to your garden."

"_despite the thorns?" his wife asks, surprised. He is missing something.

"_their scent is heady." The blonde-haired witch confirms. Cassiopeia smiles at her, satisfied. She nods to Theodore.

"_you are one lucky bastard."

Her cousin laughs, hearty and full, and he kisses the back of his wife's hand with devotion. Luna smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

"_yes, I do agree."

If Cassiopeia's eyes flicker over to him, something in them raw and unrecognisable, Remus pretends he does not see. (He was not so lucky.)

.

"_what was that?" he asks, once Luna and Theodore are gone and it is just the two of them sitting in the rose garden, enjoying the summer air.

"_what was what?" his wife asks, eyes closed and head tilted back as she basks in the sunlight. Remus shifts uncomfortably.

"_the discussion that you had with Luna. About the roses."

Her head tilts forward, and she cracks a lazy eye to look at him.

"_why do you ask?" she says, arms locked high above her head as she stretches and offers more of her skin to the sun.

"_I thought we were going to do something against that Law." Remus says, and the way she sighs makes him feel like a foolish fifteen years old again.

"_we are."

His wife is not forthcoming with information. Remus wonders if she will ever give him a straight answer.

"_and what are we doing?" he asks, prodding further until she gives him what he asks. He wants to know, he wants to get his Lily and James' son out of Azkaban and he wants to do it sooner rather than later. The image of Sirius haunts his mind.

"_Gryffindors..." she sighs, and shakes her head in the sunlight. But his wife does straighten up, rising from her chair to come and sit in his lap. He isn't sure if she's doing it by affection, because it distracts him or simply because she's that paranoid that someone could hear them. "you needed a Hero to defeat the Dark Lord" she says, and it doesn't look like it makes much sense in the context of the conversation, but he tries to pay attention regardless as she presses a kiss to his jawbone. "and for that, you raised a Gryffindor." One of her hand grabs his hair, and she tilts his head to the side, giving herself better access to his neck and the sensitive skin behind his ear. She makes him feel eighteen again, and not bloody forty something. "It worked well enough." she adds, in between licking and sucking and making him lose his mind. Remus settles his hands on her hips and tries to make her stop, but she only smiles and carries on. "This is a different enemy." she says, as she works her way back up to his lips. "it's not dark against light, but grey. They have the law on their side, and murder isn't going to solve this mess." She kisses him then, rough and demanding and when she presses his face to the side of her neck, he obeys eagerly enough. "This problem is political." she says into his ear, and her warm breath makes him shiver. "so let those who have been raised as politicians handle it."

There's something wrong with her words, something that would normally alert him and worry him, but she's thrown her head back, and his lips are on her neck, and she's grinding against him through the fabric of his trousers and all thoughts fly from his mind.

(Slytherin indeed.)

.

Remus Lupin gets the post of DADA professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the 1999 fall. His wife congratulates him, they have a nice dinner at the manor and a round of mind-blowing sex. They agree to live apart during the week and for Remus to come back on weekends. Neither mention living at Hogwarts again, or the possibility of him Apparating in every morning.

In September 1999, Cassiopeia Lestrange-Lupin takes her seat at the Wizengamot, accompanied by Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy and Andromeda Black-Tonks. Amelia Bones-Daredevil eyes them strangely. Augusta Longbottom smiles.

.

January 2000. Neville Longbottom, with his wife Susan Bones-Longbottom at his side, releases a statement in the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler. The Wizarding world listens. In his short address, the man who stood up to Voldemort says that ' _with the death of Minister Shacklebolt, and the subsequent appointment of our current Minister by martial law without election, Wizarding Britain will soon have to hold a vote for a new Minister. I, with the support of my wife, family and friends, will be presenting my candidature to the ministerial elections. For a new millennium, I offer a new beginning_.'

.

Remus came home early, that Friday. The fourth year Gryffindor-Slytherin class he should have had ran into rather unhappy Mandrakes during Herbology, earlier that morning and were currently comatose in the infirmary. Sprout, who had never before had an entire class harmed under her care, was rather distraught and Remus had fled the castle as soon as he could, avoiding the rather emotionally compromised crowd of the Castle. Remus came home early, that Friday afternoon. The clock hadn't even chimed four yet. He hoped this meant he could have tea with his wife and let her know how lonely he had been, with the full moon approaching and Moony begging for company. Instead he had heard voices.

"_any more assassination attempts, Longbottom?" Remus had been about to knock on the door to announce his presence, but the words halted his hand.

"_none. You are sure this is safe for Susan? She is expecting, you know, and I don't want anything to go wrong."

"_don't worry." A male voice said. Theodore. Theodore Nott.

"_we traced the first ones back to their source." He knew that nasally voice. Draco Malfoy. Remus wondered what reason might have pulled Malfoy, Nott and Longbottom into one same room. "They've been – "

"_they are no longer your concern." cut in his wife, with a warning in her voice. "Tell me more about Susan. How is the pregnancy going?"

"_well." said Longbottom, with relief in his voice. "She's been sick in the mornings, but that's to be expected. The doctors said she was having twins."

"_that's fantastic news!" his wife rejoiced, and laughed a little. "Ah, this calls for something a little stronger than tea! Resi – please get us some champagne to celebrate the news." He heard a 'pop', then the uncorking of the bottle. He assumed the silence that followed as due to the pouring of the bubbly drinks.

"_to the Longbottom twins" said Theodore. "may their lives be long and healthy."

"_to the twins!" voices replied in chorus; far more than Remus had initially thought. There were not just four people in the room, but perhaps ten or eleven.

"_and your campaign is going well?" another voice asked. A woman this time, but Remus could not place her.

"_yes. People are surprisingly willing to vote for me, so long as they don't have to lift a finger." He heard hums of agreement throughout the assembly, perhaps a couple of chuckles even.

"_good." his wife said. "Let us know if you encounter any issues."

"_I will." Neville promised – and there was something ominous about the way he said it, something unforgiving in his voice. "as for Harry – "

"_don't worry." his wife cut in again, and she seemed to be doing an awful lot of that. Remus wondered why no one stopped her. "concentrate on the elections. We'll get you that visit to Azkaban."

"_right." Neville said, relieved. "Thank you."

Titters across the room, some laughter at his words.

"_don't thank her, Longbottom." someone called – and he recognised that voice instantly. Ilana Shacklebolt; Kingsley's niece. "It'd be like thanking the Devil for letting you sell him your soul." She was a nice girl, or so Remus had thought. He wondered what was happening on the other side of that door.

"_still." Neville argued. "She's keeping her promise."

"_it's so lovely that you will be having twins." an airy voice called from the back of the room. "What will you name them?" Luna, sweet, sweet Luna. She was involved in this too, then.

"_Frank and George if they are boys." said Neville after a second's silence. He seemed unsure if he should answer the blonde witch. "Otherwise Alice and Lauren."

"_good names." someone called out. "Proper names. It will make the Old Generation happy."

"_oh, shut it, Avery." a female replied. "Who cares if these old farts are happy or not." _Ginny_. That was Ginevra Weasley-Potter. "I think it's great that you are naming them after your parents."

"_thanks" Neville said quietly. "Anyway, have you heard anything from Harry?"

"_yes." Ginny said with a satisfied smirk in her voice. "I've been allowed marital visits, thanks to the few string Malfoy pulled. He said he'd endorse and support you." Her voice faltered. "Him and Hermione are doing alright. Ron is – not so well. He's struggling to deal with the dementors."

"_can he last until September?" his wife asked, voice sharp. Ginny remained silent. "Can he, or do we need to hurry things along?"

"_I don't – " she began, uneasy. "I don't know." she finally admitted. "He's never done very well in these situations, but he's never stuck them through so I don't know how long it'll take him to break."

"_we can't move any faster." the woman from before said. Remus knew he had taught her before, the timbre of her voice was familiar. "We can't do anything before the elections are announced."

There was a moment of silence.

"_no." his wife said, something in her voice that made Remus' hair stand on their end. "You are right. We can't move until the elections." The way she said it made the wolf weary.

"_Cassiopeia." her cousin said sharply, seeing something Remus couldn't grasp.

"_when is your next visit Potter?" she ignored him.

"_in two weeks' time." Ginny sounded hopeful. Weary, but hopeful.

"_very well. You will give us your formal assessment then. If you don't think Weasley can make it, tell us."

There was a sound of finality in her voice.

"_we'll meet again in two weeks' time." Theodore said, once he was sure his cousin had nothing to add. "Here, at midday. Who cannot come?"

Not a sound was heard.

"_very well." Cassiopeia said. "Thank you for your time."

The 'pop' of Disapparition could be heard all over the room. Remus counted five distinctive ones. He assumed some had tag-alongs.

"_Cassiopeia." Theodore's voice rung, just as Remus thought everyone was gone. He removed his hand from the door knob. "I don't want to know what you are planning, but don't. It's not worth it. We cannot risk everything for just one man."

"_and your life-debt, Theodore?" Life-debt? Remus wasn't sure he understood at all. "We cannot allow a single one to die there. The life-debt is to the resistance, and to deny it would void all our efforts."

"_they will kill you." Theodore said slowly, as if she were a child. "I know you want it gone, and so do I – but they will kill you, Cassiopeia. There is nothing we can do without risking this all. Weasley has to make it, or he will die."

There was silence in the room. Long, and drawn out. Remus thought that, perhaps, Theodore had left and he had simply not heard him.

"_what is your plan?" Luna asked, in her soft and airy voice that settled the inner wolf.

"_if the mountain does not come to us" his wife said, slowly, as if she were tasting the words on her tongue and trying them like a vintage wine "then we shall go to the mountain."

He didn't understand. (Or perhaps, he didn't want to understand.)

"_Cassiopeia – " Her cousin sounded so broken. "You know I would follow you."

"_I don't ask it of you." she replied, so softly he barely heard it. "You have something precious." she added, and perhaps she made a gesture, perhaps she didn't need to, but Remus felt like he was intruding.

"_you do too." Luna said quietly. "There are wrackspurts all around your brain."

A moment of silence. Then, perhaps the fondest he had heard her speak yet;

"_oh, Luna. You know how us Sacred Twenty – Eight are. Theodore is just the exception because his mother was Finnish."

"_I don't think it's fate." the blonde witch replied carefully. Remus felt like he was listening to two different conversations.

"_the Old Magic watches over us." his wife said slowly, almost as if agreeing. "Sometimes, we do not understand her gifts."

"_the roses are wilting." Lady Nott said, with a half wail in her words.

"_not yet." Theodore argued. "In a few weeks, we will be settled."

"_the thorns are too deep." his wife argued back, out of step with the conversation and yet, if only Remus knew what to look for, he might understand. The two Slytherins did.

"_it's not a bad thing." Cassiopeia whispered. "Perhaps it is what the Old Magic needs."

"_emotions?" Theodore bit back, a bit wry.

"_sacrifices." his cousin argued. "The Battle of Hogwarts provided with many, and the ambient magic is unsteady. It's shifting, and the ley-lines are changing. Spirits are coming anew, finding new soil in which to plant their seeds and the Old Magic is beginning to feel too. She has given us many gifts, Theodore, and perhaps it is time we gave her back what she craves most."

"_bees." Luna said, with a whisper of wonder.

Cassiopeia must have smiled, because he could hear it in her voice when she next spoke.

"_yes. Bees, and children, and believers."

The clock chimed four.

"_you can come in, Remus." his wife called from the other side of the door, and he felt foolish for having thought she hadn't known. She was Lady of the Manor. Her magic belonged to these walls.

He pushed the door and slipped in, his shoes barely making a sound against the plush Persian carpet of the Grand Salon.

"_I trust you found it interesting?" his wife teased, neglecting to let go of her embrace her cousin and his wife had her in.

"_again?" Theodore murmured, amused.

"_cats have nine lives." Luna replied, as if it explained everything. Remus focused on Cassiopeia.

"_what were you discussing?" he asked, weary of the snake whose bed he shared.

"_freeing Harry. Is this not what you wanted?"

"_it sounded like you were going for murder." Remus argued, watching her back stiffen and Theodore's knuckles turn white.

"_you did say, Remus, that you would. To get him out of Azkaban." She took a step towards him, Luna watching her with fascination. Her hands trailed over his arms. "For Sirius." She whispered. "You said you would."

He stepped away from her brutally, casting her hands from him. Her lips pinched in anger.

"_that is not what I meant." the werewolf argued.

"_is it not?" his wife asked, arms crossing underneath her breasts. She looked lovely in her anger. "Did you not promise to _crucio_ and kill for the boy who could have been yours? Did you not swear it? To me? To Sirius?" Her eyes narrowed. "To Lily and James?"

Remus saw red.

"_you have no right" he began in a growl "to speak of them in the name of murder. They were good, and right, and they gave their lives for Harry, for us, in the defeat of Voldemort." He took a step forward, aggressively closing onto the witch he had wedded but did not know, and she matched him word for word.

"_then who are you to disregard their sacrifice?" she asked with a snarl. "Why are you not doing all you can to free Harry? Surely if they could die for him, then you can kill in his name!"

He watched her, thunderstruck for a second, before shoving her away once more.

"_you disgust me." he finally said, turning around to stride out of the room. "You are no better than those we fought against, killing for convenience and spinning it in a web of lies and honour."

His hand was on the door, when he heard the spell. He barely had the time to turn around before it hit him.

"_obliviate."

Remus Lupin knew no more.

.

"_it is the third time." Theodore said carefully as his cousin watched the prone body of her husband. "Perhaps there is no hope for him to see as we do."

"_he said he would kill for Potter." she replied, meek and quiet. Theodore hated her like that. "He said he would fight for him – so why can't he see? Why does he keep having _qualms_ about it?"

"_lions roar" Luna said softly, placing a hand on the witch's shoulder "but you know they rarely hunt."

Cassiopeia laughed. (It wasn't nice, or happy, but it wasn't sobbing and Theodore was grateful for that.)

"_silly me." she replied instead, and levitated the body of her husband. "You can see yourselves out, right?" she asked quietly, already opening the door and moving upstairs.

"_of course." Theodore said, too low for her to hear it. He wondered if they ought to go, if they shouldn't stay (what if the obliviate didn't work? What if the werewolf awoke and remembered? What if Cassiopeia tried telling him again, what if this time he became violent and hit her? What if – so many what ifs and Theodore was tired of them.)

"_this is the last time." Luna said softly. "the Hummingdeons are gone from her gardens."

Theodore turned around to hug his wife, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he closed his eyes and prayed to the Old Magic.

"_I know, Luna." he sighed. "I know."

They left in a soft 'pop'.

.

At first, Remus Lupin wasn't sure where he was when he opened his eyes. His head was spinning, and the heavy drapery above the bed made it far too dark for it to be his Professor's quarters at Hogwarts.

"_heavy week?" a soft voice asked, grey eyes coming into his view as he groaned. "you fell asleep as soon as you got back." she added, placing a cold hand to his forehead.

"_I missed you." Remus said quietly, tugging her onto the bed beside him. There was something nagging at his mind, a feeling of anger, but his wife smoothed a wrinkle in his brow and the headache eased a little. "Hogwarts is cold without you." he added with a yawn. He felt shattered, as if he hadn't napped at all. His wolf was restless.

"_it's lonely." she agreed, placing a soft kiss against his jaw. "you were back early?" she added with a raised eyebrow.

"_a fourth year Gryffindor slipped his whole class into coma by knocking over a mandrake."

She hid a smile.

"_he was lucky it was still young."

Remus nodded thoughtfully. She watched him, concern in her eyes.

"_the full moon is close." he said, by ways of explaining his tiredness. She still had that crease between her eyes, the one that said she worried for him, so he passed a thumb over it and tried to smooth it out.

"_you are so tired." she whispered. "are you sure you don't want to live at Hogwarts permanently? I could apparate in for the weekends."

"_no." he argued, feeling betrayed by his body. She hated Hogwarts. "No, it's fine. Just the full moon."

She looked worried a little longer, before sighing heavily.

"_if you say so." she eventually gave in, rising off the bed. "I'll draw us a bath." she said quietly. He grabbed her hand.

"_stay." he whispered instead. "I'd like to just lay here for a little while."

She stayed silent, half turned to go and a tension line in her shoulders, before she eventually sunk back into the mattress.

"_okay." she promised quietly. "just for a little while."

Remus smiled and closed his eyes.

.

Cassiopeia was alone on the Thursday the Great Horned owl of the Potters flew into her dining room. She was eating dinner.

The bird hooted, settling on the back of a nearby chair, and hopped closer so she could untie its burden. Cassiopeia fed him a piece of fish in thanks, letting the sharp beak graze her fingers as she broke the wax seal.

' _He said he'd hold._ '

No address, no signet on the wax, no names; but she didn't doubt its origin. A sigh of relief left her.

"_good." she said to the empty dining hall, crumpling the paper in her fist. "Good." And then, as she raised her glass of wine to her lips in a toast; "Thank you."

The Old Magic curled and shimmered around her.

.

The official ministerial elections were announced to be held on the twenty-ninth of September 2000. The Prophet published it, above the fold on the front page, along with an article about Neville Longbottom and his pregnant wife, Susan. Cassiopeia read it all in her bath, a tumbler of firewhiskey having long since replaced her morning coffee, and smiled.

.

Lysander Nott was born on the thirtieth of April 2000, late in the night. His twin, Lorcan, was born on the first of May. Cassiopeia was godmother to both.

.

"_it's time."

Cassiopeia looked over at her cousin, standing in the middle of the Petit Salon in Lestrange Manor. She hadn't heard him come in, though the Chatelaine magic had buzzed at the edge of her awareness. She turned back to the window, and the setting sun outside.

"_go on." she said, rather than following her cousin out. "I'll be with you soon."

"_Cassiopeia – "

"_I just need a moment, Theo." she interrupted quietly, firmly. "Please." she added, like an afterthought. It had been a long time since she had called him Theo. It had been a long time since she had been so alone.

"_he didn't mean it." her cousin said quietly. "You know he didn't. The new moon affects him just as much as the full moon."

"_it's the seventh time." she whispered, pressing her forehead against the glass. "I don't think I can take this anymore."

"_the law will be repelled soon." Theodore told her, stepping forward to put a hand on her shoulder. "and then you can go your separate ways, and he'll never know."

She stayed silent for a long time. Nervous chatter could be heard filtering in from the room over.

"_what about when the charms will break?" she asked, rubbing her hands together uneasily. "Memory charms were never meant to be overlapped; and for him to have undergone seven in the span of barely a year – it's a lot of strain. He's been tired, having headaches. His wolf is restless." She gripped his hand tightly. "Moony went for me a couple of times, during the full moon. Normally he's content to just lay on the rug, or run the grounds, but this time he went for me. Even in my Animagus form he didn't relent." She threaded her fingers through his, and Theodore suddenly wished Luna were here. His wife always had the right words to calm Cassiopeia. "I had to lock myself in the bathroom." she whispered, and Theodore tried not to feel the anger, tried not to want to hurt the man who made his cousin whisper in an empty room. "He was just so mad."

"_but Remus has never hurt you?" He needed to be sure. He needed to make sure that his cousin was safe, that she wasn't hiding bruises or biting her lips. He needed to be sure, because she was his cousin, she was family, and if Remus Lupin had been hurting her consciously; Merlin knew that by the Old Magic, Theodore would kill him.

"_no." she whispered, then cleared her throat. "No. He wouldn't. He – " a tremulous breath. "He thinks he love me."

The din in the other room got louder, as someone opened the door and called out to the cousins:

"_they are about to announce the winner." Theodore made a desultory motion with his hand.

"_we'll be right along, Marcus." The man shrugged, but didn't press, closing the door as he left. Cassiopeia breathed in, then out.

"_shall we?" she asked, hand still holding his and eyes fixed on her rose garden.

"_we shall." her cousin replied, and she pulled herself away from the bubble of quiet.

.

On the twenty-ninth of September 2000, Neville Longbottom, Hero of the Second Great Wizarding War, became Minister of Magic.

On the thirtieth, he announced he had set into motion the repelling of the Law of the Twelfth of March 1999.

On the first of October, he decried all imprisonments made in the protest preceding the Law and in its application a breach of the Rights of Wizarding Folk and officially pardoned wizards and witches who had been imprisoned unlawfully. By that evening, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger-Weasley and Ron Weasley had been freed from Azkaban. Their freedom was only the beginning of a long series of long-awaited changes that unmade the last two years of governmental machinations.

On the twenty-fifth of February of the following year, five months after the Minister had made known his intention to abolish the Law, the Wizengamot held a to determine if the 'Marriage Law', as it had come to be known, would be abandoned. It was repealed at near unanimity.

On the first of April 2001, the first divorce was officiated by the Minister of Magic, between Ilana Shacklebolt and Eridanus Rosier.

.

Breakfast was tense, that morning. Cassiopeia read the Prophet quietly, and Remus read a book in silence, but he pinched his lips at the sight of the firewhiskey that replaced the coffee of their first mornings together and she tried not look the man in the eye.

"_I am happy." Remus finally said, putting his book aside to look at his wife of two years. He had never quite managed the Slytherin detachment she often used when there were important matters she wanted to discuss. Cassiopeia snorted at his words, but did not look up from the Prophet.

"_you think you are, yes."

He didn't like her words, or the way she had put it.

"_I am." he insisted, past the headache he could feel teetering at the edge of his brain.

"_you won't be in five years." She warned, flipping a page of the Prophet and taking another sip of the amber liquid. He hated that, and he hated the thing they had become, but he loved her.

"_must you drink so early in the morning?" Remus asked instead, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of the alcohol. She ignored him. "Are you not happy?" he finally asked, the question that had been burning on his tongue for a while now.

"_I was." she said, but the past tense stung him.

"_was?" She didn't reply, and he grabbed her arm to pull her closer. The wolf growled. "what do you mean?" he asked, almost begged because he thought he had found a home, thought he had found someone to love him and be with him and – and perhaps it had been this bloody Law all along, perhaps she had just been smiling and thinking, quietly, to herself; just a few more days, just a few more days.

"_I mean" she said, putting her paper to the side and finally giving him her attention "that the me you think you are in love with is the person I was a year ago; not the one I am now."

"_how can you be so sure?" Remus asked, broad hands settling on either side of her hips as he pulled her closer. The firewhiskey was heavy on her breath.

"_you said you would." she told him, with something on his voice that sent alarm bells ringing in his mind. Words sprung to his lips, and he did not halt them though she made no sense. They made no sense.

"_that is not what I meant." He had heard this before. He had said this before, and the exchange soured on his tongue like bitter wine. He knew these words, and knew this tone and something, something sharp and jagged, was tickling at a corner of his mind.

.

"_is it not?" his wife asked, and the memories came tumbling back.

He looked at her in horror.

.

"_what have you done?" he whispered, as her grey eyes bore into his and didn't relent. She was willing him into remembering it all, willing him into seeing all the times he had learnt and rejected their secret. "what have you done?" he whispered again, and whereas the first time he said it in horror, this time it was anger that tainted his words. They left his throat, bitter and jagged, and the grew and rolled in the air between them, taking the strength of a hurricane from butterfly wings and slapping her in the face, through the alcohol and the mist of their too-warm bathroom and suddenly Remus needed air, he needed to breathe and get away because this woman, this snake in his arms, she was not someone he knew.

He left the bathroom, almost skidding on the floor in his haste to get away from her, and Cassiopeia Lestrange let him go.

.

She was still in the bath when he came back. Her feet were pruned, and almost all the bubbles gone, but her eyes were closed and there was a bottle of firewhiskey beside the glass. He tried not to look at her, so pale against the porcelain, and gathered his belongings quickly.

"_you are going." she said quietly, eyes still closed and voice without intonation.

"_yes." he acknowledged. "To Harry's, for a while."

He needed to think. He needed to think this through, and hold his all-but-in-name godson close and breathe. He needed to make sure it was worth it.

"_shall I draft the divorce papers?" she asked, without inflection in her voice, just a placidity that worried him a little. She was very quiet, and the bathwater was very calm.

"_no." he said, though his throat was rough and there was heaviness in his chest. "not yet." he amended. She hummed, as if she did not care, and he looked at her for a long time before closing the door.

.

She was still in the bath when Theodore came in, a few hours later. Ginevra had let him know that Remus had come to stay with them for a little while, at Grimmauld Place, and she wanted to make sure that Cassiopeia was alright. The werewolf, she had said, looked shaken. He had said something about having to think and sort through some stuff and the Potter-Weasley had been there, once, when Remus had walked in on them and been obliviated.

The water was cold, and he thought for a second was she dead, but his cousin's grey eyes flickered up to him when he put a hand over her shoulder.

"_Merlin's sake, Cass' – don't you have better things to do than drown yourself?" he asked, gruffly, because he had been scared and she wasn't okay. He wished his wife was there, but she had stayed with Lysander and Lorcan and perhaps this was for the best, because Cassiopeia wouldn't want anyone seeing her like that. Theodore kept his eyes firmly on his cousin's face.

"_it's quiet, here." she said instead, and proceeded to tilt her head so that her ears were covered by the water. Theodore cursed, then flicked his wand and vanished the cold bathwater. Another flick had her wrapped up in a towel, and a third dried her hair.

"_common." he said, instead of the thousands of invectives he wanted to hurl at her, at the werewolf, at anyone for turning his bright, quicksilver cousin into this catatonic shell. "Luna's prepared you a room."

"_that's very kind." she said, standing up slowly and, methodically, one leg after the other, getting out of the bath. As if she were afraid to upset her balance were she to move too quickly.

"_Lysander has been asking after you." he said, watching the spark of brightness that appeared in her eyes at the mention of her godson. Cassiopeia and Remus never expressively tried children, and the cousins never spoke of it, but she loved his sons with all her heart.

"_they are smarter than their father." she said instead, and he felt so relieved to hear her jibe, so ecstatic to see the light return slowly to her eyes that Theodore thought he could ignore her insult for now.

"_he's been calling "ta-taa" for the past few days."

"_he could just be babbling." she replied, going for the wardrobe without his prompting. He was glad. Theodore turned to give her privacy as she dropped the towel.

"_perhaps." he agreed. "but he says it more often when he hears your name."

There was the rustling of fabric, the quiet shifting of silk over her skin and Theodore was relieved to hear her when she spoke.

"_Theo – can I – can I stay a couple of days, please?"

"_of course, you idiot."

He felt her hand slip in his, tiny little bird-like bones so fragile underneath his fingers, and when he turned around she was wearing her old Durmstrang robes, with the fur lined edges and the scent of memories. She had been happy in Durmstrang. She had been happy, away from England and Voldemort and the stupid, stupid Ministry; and Theodore wished he could just tuck her away from the world and keep her safe.

"_oh, Cassiopeia" he whispered, staring at her in her blood-red garb and shivering from the cold inside, and he drew her into his arms and didn't let go for the longest of time.

.

"_I think I might go to Durmstrang for a little while." his cousin said, one night as they were sitting around the fire in Nott Manor. The children were in bed, and the three of them had been amiably reading their own books as the evening drew long.

"_I heard they had good research labs." Luna said evenly, though Theodore sent his cousin a worried look.

"_Ivanova is still there" Cassiopeia said, in a rush of words. "She wrote me a couple of weeks ago, saying that a spot was opening in one of the Time Room research departments, for a Rune and Arithmancy mastery. I thought it would be good. It would give me something to work towards."

Luna placed a calming hand on her husband's knee.

"_I think it's a lovely idea." the blonde witch said softly.

"_Durmstrang is far away." Theodore said, before clearing his throat as his voice broke uneasily. He had always missed Cassiopeia when she had been gone, and she had been the sole reason he had made it through his seventh year at Hogwarts.

"_it doesn't have to be." she said softly, reaching to hold his hand. "Professor David used to apparate every week from Cairo to teach us Ancient Runes. England is not so far in comparison." Then, more softly "I could be home for the weekends."

Theodore tightened the hold he had on her hand, trying to find the right words to express the sudden emotions blocking his throat. He had never been very good at it, though, so he eventually nodded quietly.

"_alright." he said, and the relief on her face told him he had made the right choice. "Okay. But you'll be back, right?"

"_of course." she whispered affectionately, her hand stroking the side of his face and tightening around his shoulders. "I know where home is." she added, and there was not much he could add to that.

.

"_so, it's true?" Neville leant against the door leading to the Petit Salon of Nott Manor, watching the simple trunk where the witch had laid her blood-red robes. "You really are leaving."

"_only for a little while." Cassiopeia said softly, stroking the fabric she hadn't known she had missed. "I think the cold will do me good."

"_what about Remus?" the Minister of Magic asked, though both knew it wasn't really a winning argument. Neville, much like Ginevra, had experienced the werewolf's intense disregard for the underhanded tactics of his wife. Sometimes Neville felt it too, the disgust at what he had condoned, the disgust at what she had done to get him where he was, to give him the power to rescind the Law and free the Golden Trio. But, he knew, a hero could not fight a politician's battle; and this had been exactly what these past two years were. Cassiopeia had been kind to him, and the Old Magic had watched over Susan throughout her pregnancy. He could not complain.

"_what about Remus?" the woman replied, returning the question with a barb of her own. She was still wearing her wedding band, he noticed, and Neville felt something like pity for the Slytherin.

"_people have noticed you weren't there." He said instead, because Cassiopeia Lestrange did not accept pity. He wondered, fleetingly, at the oddness of the pair they might make, but couldn't find it in himself to muster up the hatred that had spurred him to fight against Voldemort and Bellatrix. He had hated Bellatrix, and she had taken his hatred with her, into the grave. He had no more anger for the pure-blooded witch running from her husband, running from her choices, rushing to a home she would soon find stifling.

"_I'll be along in a minute." she said quietly, and pressed her nose to the blood-red fabric. Neville did not move.

"_was there someone?" he asked finally, because the Law had pulled many apart. "Before, I mean. In Durmstrang."

She smiled.

"_there were many someones." she offered quietly. "and many friends too. People with their own brand of magic."

He knew what she meant.

"_are they still there?" he asked, because sometimes people outgrew friendships when they grew up.

"_not all of them." Cassiopeia offered with a bitter smile. "But enough are."

She stayed silent a little longer, lost in her mind, before she smiled at him again.

"_when I was eleven" she said, like it was a lifetime ago "I came to Durmstrang not speaking Bulgarian. A lot of us didn't, because we came from all over the North and the East of Europe. The first few weeks we didn't have any lessons. Instead, we got paired up – an older student and a younger one, and they had to teach us Bulgarian." she smiled. "Stasia taught me Russian instead. She thought it was the funniest thing when I'd try to speak to other students and wouldn't understand a lick of it." Neville frowned, because that didn't sound funny to him at all. "She got caught, of course. We were punished, and she proved very good at teaching me Bulgarian." She smoothed a wrinkle out in the fabric, fluffed the fur and looked at him. "The teachers were very hard on the both of us after that, and as a result my Bulgarian is much better than the one of my peers."

She was trying to say something. Neville thought about her words, and attempted to make sense of it.

"_you are hoping that Remus will come and find you?" he asked, unsure. She burst out laughing.

"_oh, dear Merlin no. He wouldn't be able to find the Castle – they obliviate people once they leave the premises, you know? You can only get there by invitation." She wiped her eyes. "No. I was just saying that the Old Magic watches after its own. If Stasia hadn't purposefully made a fool of me, I would still be speaking a broken Bulgarian – and I would most certainly never have learnt Russian. The Old Magic is our Mother, and she keeps us in Her bosom" she said softly, laying the cape down and coming to stand next to him by the door. "So long as we believe in Her, and trust that She has our best interests at heart, then we will be fine."

She smiled at him as she flickered the lights off inside the room, closing the door on the crimson robes she would be wearing before the sun rose again. The leaving party was still underway, all their scheming partners there, and she had one last round of goodbyes to make before she could take a step back from the world.

"_do you really believe that?" Neville asked quietly, because sometimes the witch baffled him.

"_do you not?" she retorted, fingers sparkling and crackling. "What else do you call the instinct to choose rightly, the stillness of a moment, the sudden lucidity? What else" she asked again, eyes bright, and he wondered if Durmstrang taught Old Magic "is the drawing back of the Veil?"

"_I don't know." Neville offered, because he couldn't match the intensity of her voice, the intimacy of the words she spoke. The light in her eyes dimmed, and she seemed to shrink before his eyes; slowly filling back her human shell where she had before appeared to take more space than simply her, and he felt something slither on the surface of his skin. ' _I don't know_ ', he said, because it was alright not to know.

She smiled, regardless of the shortness of her breath, of the shifting of the atmosphere, and entered the Ball Room with determined steps.

"_ta-taa" a little blur of black hair and grey eyes shouted happily, slamming into the witch's legs. Soon a second one followed, tottering footsteps latching onto her other side, and Neville watched with amusement as the pureblood crouched next to him, arms open wide and a bright smile on her face.

"_ta-taa" she replied, grabbing one godson in each arm and swinging them up. He thought he heard a featherlight charm muttered underneath her breath, but Neville said nothing and rather went to hunt for his wife and their newly born sons.

"_ta-taa" he heard, as he walked away.

"_ta-taa" she replied again, voice fading over the din of the people gathered. Lysander and Lorcan giggled as she spun them around, her robes flaring with the movement and they clapped the pudgy hands. ' _encore, encore_ ' they seemed to say, so Cassiopeia drew breath and spun, faster and faster, dark green robes billowing around her and her hair whipping like a storm.

She spun, and she spun, and she spun until the three of them were dizzy and any thought of marriage, husbands and running had been expunged from her mind. And then she spun again, to hear the laughter of her godsons as they batted their uncoordinated hands together.

 _'Encore_ ' she could hear them say in their giggles. ' _Encore!'_

.

Her robes stood out in the snow, like a beacon to the world. The portkey had taken her there, to a snowy hill in the middle of the nowhere, and Cassiopeia had received the firm instruction to wait for someone to come and pick her up. Knowing Stasia, she'd probably be there for a little while.

The witch sat down on her trunk, breathing in the cold air of the Scandinavian north, and felt it sting her nose, burn all the way down to her lungs and she held it there, cleansing, before breathing out. This was right, she knew, this was where she was supposed to be. Cassiopeia breathed in, held it, then out again.

"_Lestrange!" she heard someone shout from behind her, and so Cassiopeia spun around quickly to face the on-comer. It wasn't Stasia, but she didn't mind. She had all the time in the world to see her old mentor again.

"_Petrinsky!" she said instead, surprised when the bear-like man came close enough for her to recognise him. "Marko – what a surprise! I didn't know you were still here." she added, with a smile large enough to hurt her cheeks. He picked her up and twirled her around, batting her hand away when she made to pick up her own trunk and winking.

"_when Stasia said you were coming back, I couldn't help but volunteer." She laughed, feeling the Old Magic in her chest. This was right, she knew. She was where she was supposed to be.

"_I can't believe she kept it from me!" Cassiopeia said in a laugh. "Here I was, thinking I'd be waiting for hours!"

Marko grinned, still handsome, still roguish, and pulled two small brooms from his pocket.

"_here." he said gruffly, handing her the newer model. She gripped it tightly, feeling the wards wash over them, and suddenly the castle peeked in the distance.

"_the Citadel." she breathed out softly, awed by its magnificence. She had loved Durmstrang.

"_come on." Marko nudged her arm. "They are waiting."

They _engorgio_ ed their brooms, Cassiopeia tapping her trunk as to pocket-size it but still Marko insisted on carrying it and she couldn't help but laugh. It had driven her mad, to be waited upon hand and foot, but the wizards did it with such charm, with a grin brighter than the sun, that she had never stayed mad for very long.

"_thank you." she said instead, and got a raised eyebrow and a fond look for her troubles.

"_come on." Marko said again, arms gesturing widely and broom stuck between his legs. It looked flimsy underneath his tall frame. "Or they will have drunk all the beer."

She laughed, and her broom took her off the ground; flying over the frozen landscape that she remembered as if she had never left. Yes, she thought, feeling the Old Magic curling against her neck and burrowing in her bones. This was the correct decision.

She gave the Bulgarian wizard chase, zooming in the cold air, and never since she had returned to England had Cassiopeia Lestrange been so free. Her broom responded well to her demands, and despite not having ridden one since she had left, Cassiopeia felt confident enough as to loop and corkscrew, as if she were eleven again, gently ramming her shoulder into Marko's until he gave in and raced her back to the Citadel. The snow bit at their noses and stung their eyes, but Cassiopeia cared very little, focused on keeping just ahead by the barest of fraction, determined on winning even if Marko would never let her lose, and she laughed and laughed and laughed so much she had stitch when they touched ground – her first. The wizard looked at her as if she were mad, a grin on his face and his hair windswept by their chase, and she couldn't help but laugh again.

"_you wouldn't believe how dreary England's been." she said by way of explanation, and perhaps Marko understood, perhaps he didn't, but he shrugged and dragged her in and there was something to be said for the easy acceptance of her friends. Either it mattered or it didn't, and she couldn't believe the luck she had that Marko, Stasia, Natalia and so many others had decided that she, the little English witchlet, was firmly in the first category.

"_Lestrange!" someone shouted, the familiar Russian accent distorting her name and Cassiopeia didn't have to look to know that the arms suddenly wrapped around her were Stasia Ivanova's. She hugged back just as fiercely, the short blonde hair of her friend tickling her nose and she sneezed once, twice, thrice and sparked roaring laughter around the room. They weren't all there, Cassiopeia noticed, Ivan having died the year previous and Mikhail home with his pregnant wife, but so many of them were. Marko, Stasia, Viktor, Olga – they were there, grinning faces and beer in hand and as soon she had her own, once she had gotten rid of her gloves and a chair had been added to the table and everyone sat and laughed.

.

It is later, once Stasia is taking her back to her small home in the Citadel, that the questions come. For all her friends did not speak of the glittering golden ring of her finger, their eyes had often strayed to it throughout the evening. Ivanova had never been good at stifling her curiosity, and as her mentor Cassiopeia knew that she would soon ask. She waited once they were alone, and the thought struck her that her friend had grown too.

"_what happened?" Stasia asked, blonde bob looking almost silver in the moonlight. It took Cassiopeia a second to work out she was speaking of her ring.

"_there was a Law." she said, and the woman at her side nodded. "and I had to get married." she added, carefully, picking her words and tasting them in her mouth before she let them go. The crystallised in the cold air. "And the way I went about getting that Law repelled didn't please him."

Her friend hummed, walking briskly, and Cassiopeia would have thought Stasia hadn't heard her, had her eyes not flickered over for a second.

"_I obliviated him." She offered, because the words hung unsaid between them and she needed it to be clear, needed Stasia to look at her and through her and tell her the lies Theodore had never managed to say. (She wouldn't, because Durmstrang didn't teach liars, but Cassiopeia had hopes.)

"_before or after he decided to leave?" her friend asked, and she winced.

"_before." Cassiopeia admitted. Stasia shrugged.

"_you probably had your reasons."

The weight did not lift off her shoulders. Cassiopeia wondered how Stasia might react if she ever told them to her. She had reasons, yes, but none of them were good and none of them justified what she had done.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

.

Petrya comes on the fourth day. He is everything she had forgotten him to be, and more.

He comes, as she is reading through wads and wads of bureaucratic red tape and signing clauses of exemption in case of death, and he sweeps her off her feet.

"_Cassiopeia." he says, as if her name was water and him a man who had ran the desert. "You have been gone long." He grabs her hands but does not kiss her as he once did, and the metal ring on his fingers seems as cold as hers. "I have missed you." he says, quietly, pressing his lips to her forehead instead. She had loved Petrya, and then she had gone back to England and he had been left in Durmstrang and they hadn't sent letters. It was easier, she had learnt, to forget about someone when she didn't try to keep his memory vivid in her mind, when there weren't constant letters to remind her of what she was missing, who she was missing.

"_things have changed." she says instead of the ' _I love you_ ' she has kept caged inside for a long time. It's easy to swallow them back, easy to push them down again when they are faded from years of hiding.

"_you have grown." he adds, as if he agreed with her, and yes. War has taken its toll on her, embedding lines at the corner of her eyes and leaving scars on her skin.

"_you haven't." she says, untruthfully and playfully, and Petrya smiles, that smile that used to warm her, that smile that used to make the sun glow brighter and the days seem longer, and it does that no more. There is the faintest stirring of fondness in her breast, perhaps a fluttering whisper of something that once was, but the Cassiopeia that loved the Petrya of four years ago is gone. They have grown, and changed, and the wedding bands do not match. "I missed you." she says, then, because she still does "I miss you."

"_so do I." Petrya agrees, because there will always been a special spot for the softness of first loves, always a certain warmth that will accompany the memories of their time together, but they have grown and neither are quite the same. Pieces that once fit like a puzzle are jagged, waterlogged, perhaps, and they don't try to fit them back again.

"_I heard you had children?" Cassiopeia says instead, on a limb, because Petrya always wanted children, and he nods.

"_ _da_." he says, like he used to before and her chest erupts with warmth. "a boy and a girl."

"_I'm glad." she whispers, and smiles because Lysander and Lorcan are the sun and the moon and the stars. "and your wife?"

"_Tanya." He offers her, like a delicacy on his lips. He says it with reverence and care, like he once said her name, and she finds it bittersweet in her mouth. "She is beautiful." Petrya adds, and makes no apologies about it, no comparison because he needs not belittle them. "I love her very much."

Petrya comes on the fourth day. His grin lights up the office she is in, and his hands are warm when he places them on her shoulders. His still presses his lips to her forehead like he did four years ago; but they have changed, transformed and evolved away from each other, and when Petrya goes she feels nothing but nostalgia.

Durmstrang, she comes to realise, is full of nostalgia.

.

"_it's still here." she whispers quietly, tracing her fingers over the mark on the wall. She had passed it by every day for five years, and never had she known its meaning. The Deathly Hallows are scorched into the very stone of their school, marking the passage of Grindelwald, and, she thinks somewhat blearily, they will still be there when the school will crumble.

Stasia stands next to her, a step behind as she keeps away from the magical mark.

"_if you knew the grief it gave us." Cassiopeia tells her with a chuckle. "Voldemort was looking for them."

"_and?" Stasia asks, because Durmstrang has taught her when to speak and when to stay quiet.

"_and they are no more. Destroyed. Harry Potter did it after the Battle. Snapped the wand and tossed the Stone."

"_the Cape?" she asks, because Stasia knows that myths have a part of truth in them, much like a grain of sand that grows to be a pearl.

"_who knows." Cassiopeia murmurs, fingers trailing the great, big triangle that burns underneath her touch. "who knows."

(She does.)

.

"_are you going home for Christmas?" Marko asks, as he, Stasia and she make their way down to the pub for a well-deserved pint. Marko teaches Martial Magic to their students of Durmstrang, and it isn't rare for the three of them to come together, Friday nights, and drink merrily until the small hours of the morning.

Cassiopeia thinks back to the letter she received a couple of weeks ago, from her husband, and nods.

"_yes." a breath. "I miss my cousin." she admits, instead of saying the words that danced on her tongue.

' _I don't know you_.' He had written, in black ink on thin parchment, and she wondered if he had picked black because green had too many bad memories. ' _But I think I would like to know you_.'

"_will your husband be there?" Stasia asks, threading her arm through her boyfriend's.

"_yes." she says again, feeling the words burning in her brain.

' _if you would like to_.'

Her mentor's bright blue eyes pierced her apart.

"_you miss him." she says, like it's as obvious as the sun rising in the morning.

"_not him." Cassiopeia corrects, after she thinks on it for a moment. "I miss what we were. Him, I don't miss. I'm not sure I ever loved him." she admits, staring at her gloved hands. "but he was there, whether he wanted to or not, and he helped me after the war, like I helped him, and I think there's something to be said for that."

War matches odd fellows, she knows. Stasia nods, and Marko looks at her for a second too long, brown eyes searching for something (it's either worth it or it isn't, but he's learnt some shades too, shades of hoping and taking a chance and this is what Cassiopeia is doing; taking a chance, and he will respect that.) He appears to find it.

"_beers on me tonight." Marko says instead, and this is it for the Bulgarian wizard and his Russian companion.

.

"_Tata!" she hears when she steps through the floo, and her first thought is that Lysander's finally managed to chop off the extra 'a' he added to her name. Then she realises that it's not Lysander who spoke, but Lorcan, and she feels a pang of sadness at having missed it. They run to her, more coordinated than before, and Cassiopeia doesn't think before she kneels, her nephews barrelling into her arms and almost running her over.

"_Tata!" Lorcan says again, happily, and she repeats it back at him.

"_tata." she says, eyes roaming over their faces because they have changed, they have grown and shifted but they are still the same, still beautiful, still amazing. Lysander grips the fur of her blood-red robe, and Lorcan fists a handful of hair, and she has to laugh.

Yes. Still the same.

"_welcome back." Luna says softly, rising carefully from the armchair she was in. Whilst her first pregnancy had been almost invisible until her sixth month, her belly was already round with their third child, fifteen weeks old.

"_stay seated!" Cassiopeia laughed as she gripped her godsons and hoisted them up on her hips, one in each arm and a featherlight charm to help along. "Theodore might just have a heart attack if he sees you standing."

"_laugh all you want, cousin" comes the wry voice of her family from the door, but Cassiopeia can see very little beyond the pale blonde hair and a cork-earring. The hug is warm, and Luna's stomach presses against hers, the Old Magic purring contentedly. "but Luna should be seated. Healer's orders." His blonde wife obeys rather peacefully for the moment, a serene expression on her face as she watches the cousins embrace. There is a murmur of words, Theodore's arms tight around Cassiopeia's shoulders and a warm kiss pressed to each of his cheeks.

"_tata!" Lysander demands, and she only too happily obeys. "Spin!" Cassiopeia laughs at the word, praising him and clapping her hands and, slowly, she starts twirling. Gently, at first, then faster and faster and soon her nephews are laughing brightly, dizzy and heads spinning but seeing stars and already reaching for them. They have a fire in their souls that Cassiopeia hopes will never dim, and the Old Magic loves them too. She curls and settles around them, lifts the Veil for their eyes and teases them with peeks beneath the fabric of the world. They are too young to understand yet, but Cassiopeia knows that in a few years they will reach for it with their own hands and learn the Elder Ways.

But for the moment...

"_Tata! Spin!" her ten months old nephews order, and she obeys.

.

When he comes, one night, with little warning, she is in the bath. There is something symmetrical about it, something elegant and cyclical in the fact that he left her and finds her there again. He comes, one night, Apparating past the wards (because she would not deny him home) and slowly making his way to their bedroom, and she hears him, feels him as soon as he steps onto their domain. The Chatelaine magic hums in her veins, content with the knowledge her husband is home, but Cassiopeia does not move from her bath. She closes her eyes, stretches her legs and waits.

He knocks at the bedroom door, and she pulls it open with a little help from the Old Magic. He steps in, the room still as he left it, and pushes the door to the bathroom open by the barest of fractions. It smells like peppermint and clove.

"_hi." she says softly, the bubbles hiding her away under the surface of the water.

"_hi." he responds, because it is easy to slip back into their routine, easy to strip and join her and watch her as he settles on the other side. She looks – healthier. Brighter, perhaps. Her eyes have lost a little bit of their crazed light. "how have you been?" he asks, instead of the important questions, and she laughs.

"_better." She watches him for a moment, watches the wrinkles that have appeared on his face and the added grey in his hair and the couple of scars he got when he had to fetch a First Year out of the Forbidden Forest, and she finds him mostly unchanged. "Did you – " she begins, and she was always the one to say it first, for all his Gryffindor-ness. She called it desperation, but he disagreed. "Did you have the time you needed?"

"_yes." he says, after a pause. (Worth it or not worth it – and Harry had always been worth it. She had often been worth it too, and it was only fear and anger that drove him from her side.) She doesn't ask what he concluded, but it is obvious enough from his letter, from his presence. "I missed you." he finally says, wedding band glinting in the water, and she does not cry, no, but her vision blurs and her shoulders sink with relief.

"_me too." she admits, croaking voice in a barely-there whisper. She clears her throat and tries again. "I missed you too."

Remus smiles, and she hopes.


End file.
